


Someday, You Will be Loved

by Olivewrites



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Angst, Childhood Trauma, Christmas fic, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Homophobia, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, M/M, Martin has mommy AND daddy issues, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post S4, So much kissing, The Eyepocalypse Never Happens, They are domestic and happy, Trans Martin Blackwood, Transphobia, Transphobic family, Visiting the family, discussions and mentions of death, discussions of transphobia, discussions of trauma, for now...., his power, tw for deadnaming, tw for terminal illness
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-23
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:00:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 27,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28252803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Olivewrites/pseuds/Olivewrites
Summary: "Martin always felt the chill of the winter to his bones. The dry December air would steal moisture from his lungs, and the warmth from his body. Everything about its cold sting made him feel so far away. Whether it was because of the memories that the holidays dredged up, or because it always made his younger self yearn for more. For things he never thought he would have. Things he didn’t think he deserved, up until recently: like love, and warmth, and a home that--finally--felt like one. "~ After 6 years, Martin is visiting home for the holidays. Christmas has always been a complicated time of year for him, and seeing his family again was about to make it a whole lot harder. Faced with his homophobic extended family, Martin has to navigate their scathing remarks--while he struggles to avoid drowning in the icy water of his past. ~
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 73
Kudos: 210





	1. A Call Back

**Author's Note:**

> Hi all! This fic is extremely close to my heart. I've poured my heart and soul into this for the past month, so to any readers, I'm really glad you're here. I hope you all enjoy reading it as much as I did writing it!  
> But before I begin, I would like to thank my beta readers, who encouraged me, and approached my writing with excitement and wit that's unmatched. I love them all dearly. 
> 
> You can find all of these amazing people on twitter!  
> ~ @jonathanstims / @nickswrites // Dominik (please go support him! he's a fellow writer)  
> ~ @reefsharkivist /// Alex (they're a musician and a lovely human!)  
> ~ @MrAudioDrama// Sav!!  
> ~ @lofi_charm ///// Soap <3  
> ~ @bigbabybunnie2 / Birdie/Mariposa
> 
> My twitter handle is @olive_gardn, and my tumblr is @junossteel, please hop on over and give me a shout about what you think! Happy reading! ;)

Martin always felt the chill of the winter to his bones. The dry December air would steal moisture from his lungs, and the warmth from his body. Everything about its cold sting made him feel so far away. Whether it was because of the memories that the holidays dredged up, or because it always made his younger self yearn for more. For things he never thought he would have. Things he didn’t think he deserved, up until recently: like love, and warmth, and a home that--finally--felt like one. 

When he looks back, the chill he felt when he was younger wasn’t far off from the one he had endured in the archives the year prior. He feels more sure than ever that they’re the same. Maybe he was always meant for the Lonely. He shakes that thought away. With some love, and time, it was getting easier for him to believe otherwise. 

He reassured himself with the warmth he felt beside him, and pushed thoughts of the Lonely from his mind. Those years he spent in his youth, cold and unfeeling, were gone now, he liked to think. The man beside him, nose embedded in between the pages of a book, was proof of that. Proof that someone could understand him, could look into his heart and still take his hand. Proof of the thaw that time has afforded to him. He stares into the roaring fireplace, the dark stone hearth, and watches the light dance against the muted and rough surface. He focuses on its heat, on its intensity, and listens to the rhythmic rise and fall of Jon’s chest. He feels the cat purring in his lap, remembers and acknowledges its encompassing weight, its comforting heat. And he lets out a sigh. He feels a little warmer. 

Hearing his sigh, Jon looks over at his partner with a questioning look. His eyes round and big behind his glasses, glinting in the firelight. A silent question. Martin feels a smile tug at his lips, and a deep love in his chest, and tugs him closer in answer. Jon nestles into his arms, adjusting himself so he can read over Martin’s arm, propping himself against his bulky stomach, kicking his legs back against the rest of the couch. 

“Okay then. Use me as a pillow, why don’t you?” Martin jabs playfully, his voice dripping with amusement. Jon grunts contentedly in response. Martin couldn’t see his face, but he knew that if he could, Jon’s eyes would be sparkling with mirth, and his face, a picture of quiet amusement and contentment. 

“What are you reading, love?” 

Jon shifts the book in his grip so he can peek at the cover. 

“Harry Potter,” he pauses briefly, moving the book closer to his face to read the lightly colored print of the subheading, “and the Philosopher’s Stone.” Martin froze. Jon felt it. 

“What?” Jon questioned indignantly. 

“Have you?-” Martin began, already grinning, ready to tease him. 

“Never read the Harry Potter books? Yes, yes. Is there a problem?” 

“I’m sorry, Jon. But that might be a dealbreaker,” Martin was grinning now, “I can’t have a boyfriend who doesn’t know what a _Hufflepuff_ is.” 

Jon huffed, clearly pouting, “I _know_ what a Hufflepuff is!” 

“How could you know _for sure_ when you’ve never read the books?” Martin spoke, barely containing his mirth. 

“I--” Jon sputtered.

Martin knew that if Jon was facing him, his face would be darkened in a flustered blush. He wishes he could see it. But the two men were abruptly interrupted by the shrill dinging of an incoming call. 

“Shit, I think that might be mine. My phone’s on the kitchen counter,” Martin moved to get up, but Jon shifted to stop him, placing a hand on his chest gently. Now facing him, Jon smiled softly, “I’ll grab it,” and he hopped up with unexpected fervor, almost like the cat that slept dormant in Martin’s lap, and determinedly walked to retrieve the offending device. 

Rushing back, holding the phone like a burning coal, Jon quickly passed off the phone to Martin, falling back into the softness of the couch next to his partner. In his haste to get the shrill noise to cease, Martin didn’t look at the caller ID before pressing the green ‘accept’ button.

As Martin scooped up his phone and answered the call, Jon watched as his face slowly morphed from warm content into a picture of tense anxiety. His eyes filled with a spark of something Jon had never seen, an old wound, the crystalline reflection of something fragile, something breakable. So much unlike the calm, cool tones of solid grey in his eyes, a gray like the ever-rolling sea beyond the cliffs near their cottage. 

Martin squeaked out a name, rough and strained, “Angela?” 

He cleared his throat, and the brief spark of vulnerability had quickly replaced itself with something even more unfamiliar to Jon, a hardness, a dullness. Like the stone cold surface of the hearth when the warmth of flame is absent. 

Clearing his throat once more, he began. 

“Hello, Angela,” He said again, his voice this time was steady and strong. Controlled. 

Hearing his sister again, he felt his heart shrivel. He felt the old wounds reopening, threatening to weep blood. Up until now, he was convinced they had healed. But in the same moments, he felt his skin hardening, the old feeling of internal bleeding like an old and familiar foe. The anger and sadness, pooling in deadly congregations. 

“Martin,” the syllables sounded stilted from her lips, like she struggled with the syllables. Her voice was cordial, down to business, as ever. 

_But how did she know--?_

“I know you’ve made it _very clear_ how you feel about us,” she paused, letting the comment hit him with the appropriate sting. She always conveniently ignored nuance, he thought with contempt. 

“So I’ll keep this brief. I hope you can actually hear me out,” Martin could hear her draw a long-suffering breath. Her voice dropped some of its edge, “memée’s condition is worsening. We think it might be her last Christmas. Process that however you want, but one of her requests was that she wants you here for Christmas. Lord knows why. It’s ultimately your choice, as it would be best to say your goodbyes while you still can; while she’s still here.” 

Jon didn’t know what this ‘Angela’ was telling him, but he saw the hard line in Martin’s mouth, the way that his lips upturned in contempt and unease. His eyes had that glassy look again, like the things this woman told him had stripped away the stony look in his eyes once again to reveal a gentle and breakable crystal. Martin remained silent, taking in the information solemnly. But when this ‘Angela’ stopped talking, Martin cleared his throat once more. 

“I’ll consider it.” 

Drawing the phone away from his ear, he decisively cut the connection. He almost never let things end on his terms when they were younger. Things have changed. He let out a breath that he didn’t know he had been holding, his breath catching itself mid-sigh. His eyes stung, and it suddenly felt too hot to bear. The warmth of the fire burned his cheeks and stung his eyes, he felt prickles of sweat under his jumper, down the plane of his spine, and suddenly everything felt too close. He shot out of his seat. The cat--Admiral Jr.--leapt from its spot. Tears congregated in his eyes: threatening to spill in a solemn procession. 

“I have to--” he choked, stuttering, “I need-- I have to l-leave.” 

He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t see. He felt as though his world was on a tilting axis. _Alone_. He thought, _I need to be alone_. He began, on unsteady feet, heading towards the door. But a hand shot out, lithe and nimble fingers gripping his larger, plush ones. 

The world stopped spinning for a moment, and the tears slid from their place, allowing him to turn his head and look back to see Jon. His eye was glowing of its telltale preternatural green, but Martin couldn’t be bothered. Because he felt the familiar warmth of love, of being _seen_. Of _feeling_ seen. In that moment, he knew that Jon Knew a fraction of what lay in his heart. Even upon seeing just a fraction of what waits beneath his layers of vulnerability, he was still here. He still held his hand, tightly, like an anchor. Even though Jon has Seen what's inside his heart, Seen its cracks and imperfections and its faded wounds, he still rubs his thumb along Martin’s knuckles, and looks into Martin’s gray eyes with a loving tint to his own. And Martin no longer feels like being alone. 

“My sister--” he exhales, gulps in another breath, composing himself. 

“Angela, yes?” Jon prompted gently, still holding Martin’s hand, rubbing gentle circles over the slightly protruding bone on his thumb. 

Martin’s voice is steady now, “She wants me to come home for Christmas, to say goodbye to my grandmaman,” He takes another breath, his voice quieter this time, “She’s dying, Jon.” 

Jon squeezes his hand again, urging him further along, encouraging him. He can feel the question Martin wants to ask. He doesn’t need to Look to know. 

“Thank you, Jon,” this remark however, confused the man. He met Martin’s eyes. 

“For not Knowing what we were talking about. I know you’re trying hard,” He was surprised at this. Mostly because he expected him to say something else, a question. Martin was always doing this, though. Thanking others for giving him the basic things he deserved. Deflecting from what he really needs to say. From what he wants to ask. 

“Yes, yes, Martin. I appreciate that, I do. But,” Jon trails off, the unspoken _but what about what just happened_? Martin understood. 

“Jon, I--,” he huffs, “I _have_ to go. You know that. My memée, she took care of us when my mother started getting really sick, I--” he pauses, his eyes getting glassy again, “I have to pay my respects,” He finishes, his voice small. 

“...and?” Jon prompts. 

“And what?” He sounded frustrated now. But then he realized their problem. 

“Oh,” then, his eyes widened, “Oh, Jon, you don’t have to go. Not if it doesn’t make you comfortable, I couldn’t force you if--”

Jon was standing now, placing his other, free hand atop Martin’s. 

“Of course I’m coming with you.” He met Martin’s eyes, looking deep into their stormy gray hues, smiling softly. He coughs, “I mean, only if you want me to--” the terse lines in Martin’s face eased to softness, and bright tears spilled freely down the ample plane of his cheek. 

He lightly tugged at the hands adjoining them, pulling Jon closer. He leaned down to meet Jon’s shorter form, and brushed his lips lightly against his forehead. An action of pure tenderness, before leaning down further and silencing him with a heated kiss that Jon could only describe as Martin’s physical manifestation of his gratitude. 

Drawing back, Jon untangled their hands, and wrapped his around Martin’s slumped form, nuzzling his face neatly into the crook of his neck. 

“I love you.”

Jon whispered it like a sacred omen into the skin of his collarbone, hoping he’ll truly believe them. If not now, then someday.


	2. Re-opening a Wound

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ~in which Jon and Martin have a much needed discussion.~
> 
> ////TW FOR DISCUSSIONS OF HOMOPHOBIA ////

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To those who celebrate: Merry Christmas! If you're like me, and you have complex or complicated feelings about this day and the season in general, then today can be hard. Part of the reason why I started this fic was as a means to vent out all those feelings! But I digress: 
> 
> I hope everybody had a good day, to the best of their abilities, and I hope you enjoy the chapter! 
> 
> PS. Thanks again to all my beta's that I listed in the first chapter--they're all fantastic and you should check out their twitters and give them a follow!

Weeks later, the night before they were set to depart for England, he found the larger man sitting, slumped at the edge of their bed. Their cat in his lap, he was distractedly rubbing circles into the fur at the crest of the smaller creature's head. 

Jon laid a gentle hand on the door, and announced himself. 

“Knock knock,” the slight teasing smile lilting his voice into fondness.

“Who’s there?” Martin attempted a play at the joke. But Jon heard the crack in his voice. The creaky hesitance that gave away his nerves. 

“I’ve got tea,” Jon suddenly felt apprehensive, he realized he was completely in the dark. Stuck in the middle of the ocean without a clue as to how he would swim.  
Martin was always better at this than him. But regardless, he took a step towards his partner. He knew he had to try. Martin wouldn’t hesitate to do the same for him.

He drew in a deep breath, and approached their bed. 

“I’ve brought you something,” 

“So I’ve heard,” Martin hums, a grin tugging at his lips. 

“It’s your favorite. Earl gray. I even put in extra sugar. I know you like that when you’re stressed.” Jon hands him the mug, eyes cast downward, hoping he did okay.  
When Martin’s hand brushes his, he looks up at him, and Martin is currently looking at him like he’s the only person who ever existed. 

“You remembered?” he breathed. 

“Well, of course. I listen to everything you say. Or at least I try to,” Jon was blushing. He shrugged, embarrassed. 

Martin was silent, he simply gazed into the brown, murky depths of the liquid. Jon was practically being crushed under the deafening silence. He _needs_ to know if he did okay. 

“If that’s not what you wanted, I’m sorry. I could go fetch some biscuits? I know you like those when you’re nervous, too. Or--” 

“Thank you, Jon. Really.” 

He was looking at Jon, now. His eyes shining bright, like the sparkling ocean on a bright summer's day. Jon let out a breath. Martin took a sip of his tea and drew in a deep sigh. 

“I haven’t told you about my family, yet.” he blurted, breaking their comfortable silence.

“Martin, you don’t have to--” 

“Jon.” he said firmly, now facing him. He splayed his large hand over Jon’s smaller one, its encompassing warmth banishing the cold from Jon’s hands.

“I have to. You’re going to see them in less than 36 hours from now.” 

“If it's too much to handle, or if you don’t want to use words, I can just See it.” 

Martin draws a breath. He’s almost tempted. _It would be so much easier…_

“Jon, that’s--” he pauses, “it’s not healthy. I _want_ to tell you myself-- I need to.” 

Martin looked into Jon’s eyes, gray meeting brown and green (respectively).

“I’m ready.” he says, with an air of finality. That tone of voice, Jon has only heard Martin use once or twice. Listening back to the recordings from the Panopticon, he heard it then. He heard it after he asked him to run away from the archive. Martin’s mind was made. Nothing could change it now. 

Another sip of tea, a steadying breath. “Let me start with Angela.”

Jon flips his hand to face Martin’s, palms facing each other, entwining their fingers. 

“Okay,” he rubs his thumb along the knuckle on Martin’s forefinger, urging him forward. 

“We never got along as kids,” he began, “when mom fell ill, we both had different ways of dealing with the trauma of seeing the one person in our life who took care of us--” his breath hitched, struggling not to get upset. Jon squeezed his hand encouragingly. 

“--seeing our mom-- _My_ mom--fall ill, had such dramatically different impacts on both of us. She was around ten at the time, and from then on she just...closed up. Shriveled and shrunk away from the world. But me?” he paused to think, “I just, ended up hollowing myself out. I gave away every piece of myself, and made _sure_ there was nothing left to feel--or notice-- the hole that my mom left behind.” He stopped talking, gazing down into his tea as if it could stare back. 

“Even when I met you, Jon. I was still trying to give myself away, because it never worked. I still felt it, the hollowness. I still feel it.”  
Jon stayed silent, the only indication of his presence being the anchoring and soft ministrations of Jon’s thumb on Martin’s knuckles. 

“But you heard the tapes. You heard what Elias said. About the face she saw in me. I have my father’s face. I had his _eyes_ , Jon.” 

“Martin--” 

“She never treated me well. And I was always trying to figure out why. Always trying to give as much as I could to her, hopelessly thinking it would ‘fix things’. Because truthfully, the hollowness isn’t just from her sickness. It’s from her words, the things she would say to me when all I wanted to do was help. And yet I continued to help. While my darling sister did the opposite. And yet?--And yet. She was still liked better by my mother.” his voice was breaking now, wobbling unsteadily and cracking at the seams. 

“And yet my sister stood there, looked me in the eyes and told me I was a disgrace. Told me I was going to hell. And my mother agreed.” his voice came in breathy rasps. 

“ _she fucking agreed._ ” His tears were falling freely now, but Jon stayed by his side. The steady, shared warmth from his palm like a healing mantra.

He sniffled, “I feel… At peace, almost. Knowing that nothing I could’ve done would’ve changed the outcome of our relationship. And I don’t regret skipping out on every family function since I came out.” 

He stopped for a moment, considering, and then snickered bitterly, “I’m just Martin Blackwood! The perverted one who pays all of the medical bills. Who helps get her into a good home. Who took care of her for _years_. And still never got a mother in return.” 

He paused to take a steadying breath. 

“Angela was the same way. I took care of everything when we were younger. She constantly criticized me and ridiculed me with my mother. I was tired of giving, Jon. I was tired of doing all the legwork to repair bonds that were damaged by conditions outside of my control. I was tired of being solely charged with the responsibility to change and _fix_ those relationships. Angela always expected and wanted me to change to fit her, and never expected to be asked the same. So when I stopped accepting the abuse, she ridiculed me more openly.” 

“Martin, I--”

“That was the first time I had talked with her since my mothers death, two years ago. She hasn’t changed a bit.” he sniffled, and his eyes reflected a hurt that looked as if it ran a wire tapped directly into his heart. 

Jon stared at this wondrous, miraculous man sitting in front of him, hearing all the things he’s been through. Hearing about all of the little parts of himself he’s given away, only for those who receive it to toss it in the garbage, makes him want to dig in the trash for all the discarded pieces. Because he would cherish every single one. He wishes he knew how to say it. 

But he settles for, “Thank you, Martin. Really. I’m glad you trust me with this.” 

Shakily, Martin replies with a soft ‘yeah,’ and Jon wraps both of his arms around his neck, clinging to the larger man as if his life depended on it. 

“You can tell me more in the morning, on the train.” he said, kissing Martin on the cheek gently, before easing the now-cold tea from his hands and placing it in a secure spot on the night table. “For now, let’s rest.” Jon kisses his cheek again, and Martin hums his assent, then snorts lightly. 

“What?” Jon huffs 

“Packing is for nerds!” Martin giggles.

“You are a nerd!” 

“No…..” Martin’s grinning, now, his voice coy. The idea of seeing his family--whom he hasn’t seen in 5 years--no longer plaguing him when Jon wraps his lithe arms around his large form and playfully tackles him into the pillows. 

******** 

#### The Day of Departure.

Martin awoke with a shiver. The tips of his fingers felt far away in their numbness. He must’ve forgotten to stoke the flames of the fireplace before they went to bed. Glancing over at Jon’s sleeping form, he grins at the look of rare peace gracing his face. 

He looks so young when he’s sleeping, the lines and trenches formed by stress and age easing themselves in unconsciousness, to reveal someone who has gone through so _much_ in such a small amount of time--someone aged by trauma and stress, rather than time itself. 

He lets himself reach out and trace his fingers along the pockmarks on the cheek facing towards him, away from the pillow. He reminds himself that, so long as he’s here, no being will ever scar Jon again, put a mark upon his body and soul in the same way the evils across their years at the archives have. He hopes that those scars will fade, and replace themselves with mundane, _human_ ones. Because human scars mean that he’s encountered something frivolous, a testament to something like Jon’s clumsiness, or his recklessness. Not something dangerous and life threatening, a sign of _surviving_ , as they are now. He traces his thumb along the protruding line of his cheekbone, and Jon hums contentedly into his hand, burrowing deeper into the pillow. 

It is only now that he tears his eyes away from Jon’s sleeping form to notice the muted and subtle light of the sun filtering through the cream colored curtains. He remembers last night, and with a start, realizes that they still need to pack and leave for the train soon. At least, he assumes, based on the sun. He fumbles for his phone, and the analog numbers plastered on the home screen confirm his suspicions. He loathes to disturb the sleeping beauty that is his partner, but he does so anyways, gently rousing the unconscious man with a fondness. Jon groans and clings to the covers, a freezing man clinging to warmth. 

“Come on, Jon. We’ve got to get up so we don’t miss the train.” 

He answers in a muffled groan, face buried into the covers. 

“Don’t make me rip off these sheets.” 

His head shoots up from under the blankets, “Martin Blackwood you better leave these covers alone or so help me--” 

“Or what, Jon?” He challenges, a playful look in his eye. Jon stops, his eyes going blank as he fails to procure an answer. 

Martin takes his time to admire how _cute_ he is. His shirt, or, more correctly, Martin’s shirt, hangs off his form, exposing his collarbone and shoulder. He’s propped himself up into a sitting position with a single hand flat to the bed by his hip. His hair is mussed and tangled. Martin thinks he looks unfairly adorable, disheveled and flustered, in _his_ bed, in _their_ bed, of all places. His fingers don’t feel cold anymore, he notices. 

“Alright, _alright_. You’ve got me. It’s too early to out-sass you, Martin.” Jon concedes with a smile. 

“You are right about that,” He remarks with a smirk, “you can’t out-sass me on most good days either, Jon,” Martin teases. 

“Hey--” he protests. 

“Up you go!” Martin takes him off guard and quickly tears the heavy sheets from their place atop their forms. 

Jon makes a high pitched noise that Martin can only describe as an affronted shriek. But they both shiver from the shock of being exposed to the cold air of their mostly unheated cottage. 

The Scottish Highlands’ climate could be brutal. They had learned that within a matter of a month after arriving here. And it wasn’t helping their situation that the fire had almost completely gone out, the dying spittle of flames a mockery of the roaring fire they’d been nearly 7 hours ago. 

“Right then, I’ll get a kettle and some breakfast going. Pack a little, will you, Jon?” Martin says in a light voice, and sets his bare feet to the old, age worn hardwood. He shivers again. Socks first, then breakfast and tea. 

Jon finds him next to the stove, nursing a cup of tea and staring at the eggs scrambling in the small, beaten pot that they found when they arrived here over a year ago. His eyes looked as though they were staring at the expanse of the ocean and not a pan of eggs. 

While Martin was distracted, Jon admired the lovely plush of his arms, of his body. Looking at him like this reminds Jon of the warmth he feels when encompassed in those limbs. 

Despite his sojourn into the chilling nature of The Lonely, Martin still gave off an impressive amount of heat that was matched only by his warm smile and warmer words. He smiled at the thought, filled with affection for this man in front of him, whose heart was bursting at the seams with love to give. 

“See anything you like?” Martin’s grinning voice broke Jon from his reverie. Jon met his playful gaze with a blush. He straightens. 

“Why yes, of course.” he responds, as plainly as he can. 

“Oh?” Martin’s brows shoot up in amusement. 

“That cup of tea in your hand looks quite excellent,” Jon grins widely. 

“I see how it is,” the smile doesn’t fall from Martin’s face as he pours a cup for Jon, spooning honey and cream in after. 

Placing the warm cup on the small wooden table that they’ve shared many meals upon, Martin gestures for him to sit, a warm look in his eyes. Jon watches as he turns back to his cooking, his focus now renewed on his task. 

Their small little wooden table, perfect for two, was saddled up next to a large window overlooking the rolling hills. The tips of the grass in the field beyond their cottage were encased in ice, glimmering brightly in the dawn. Jon sips his tea, and enjoys the view. 

The clattering of plates and silverware meeting the wood of the table shake Jon from his reverie. Martin is moving to sit down now, the wood of the chair scraping against the wood of the floor. Jon watches him as he settles in.

They’ve since established an easy routine since arriving here. It’s been a year, after all. Either Jon or Martin will wake up before the other and fix breakfast. They’ll sit down together at their small dining table by the window, and eat their food. Most days, this is a silent affair. Jon would be reading and Martin would simply look out the window between them. But today, Jon neglects his food. As Martin swallows his first bite, he takes notice and frowns at the man. 

“Jon? Is there something wrong? You know how I feel about you skipping out on meals--” 

“Tell me more about your family, Martin. Tell me something good,” he made sure to keep the compulsion out of his voice. 

Jon hadn’t been able to stop thinking about what Martin’s family would be like as he was laying in the dark last night. He had no basis of personality, no images or opinion of character to go off of. For any of them, really-- other than his sister. Jon saw how Martin feels about her. He saw it in the glint--like lighting striking-- of Martin’s eyes. 

“Like…?” Martin prompts, setting down his fork. 

“I don’t know, I was thinking last night, about how I didn’t really know any of your family members that you actually _liked_ , and how I’m going to be meeting them by tonight. I don’t really know about _any_ of them, really.” 

“Well,” Martin takes a sip of tea, and looks out the window again, really taking his time to think. For most, the answer doesn’t require thought. 

“It’s complicated. There are people who I share great memories with, who I loved and respected when I was young, but as we got older, they didn’t respect me or my identity in return. After I came out, there were a myriad of uncles, aunts and cousins who I considered at one time to be some of the nicest people I knew. And it turned out that some of those same people gave me the cold shoulder for being who I am.” 

He looked down into his eggs, as if he could find an answer hidden in the dish, “It’s hard to tell where I stand with half my family members. It was like a minefield when I came out. After I came out, I didn’t stick around long enough to find which ones were safe to step on, if you know what I’m trying to say.” 

Martin drew in a deep breath, “and I imagine you can just See each of my family members, can’t you? I don’t reckon my descriptions will be better than the Eye’s.” 

Jon drew in a breath, “Yes, well, I’d rather not rely on an _all-seeing Eldritch being_ to aid me when I’m trying to remember the names of your cousins,” Jon laughs, “I’d much rather hear it from you,” he smiled at Martin meaningfully. 

“Okay, okay, fair. We’ll talk about it on the train,” Martin is smiling back, now. 

Jon places his hand atop Martin’s hand on the table, “Thank you, for sharing with me,” Jon gives the hand a squeeze. 

There was one last clarifying question he wanted to ask--that he should ask. He’d been putting it off, and within a couple of hours, it will be considered too late to have asked it at all. The knot in Jon’s stomach grew. He ate his eggs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and Kudo's are the very thing with which i subsist. Feel free to leave some! 
> 
> I hope you all enjoyed this installment! I'll be updating again this time next week, Friday January 1st!!! 
> 
> Be sure to look forward to that, because our boys are finally leaving the cottage for London after all that bad stuff happened when they left....hm....I'm sure that won't dig up some trauma.....
> 
> Anyways, come scream at me on twitter @olive_gardn! --until next week!


	3. We'll Make It, You and I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Martin head to Edinburgh for the first leg of their trip. 
> 
> Martin expresses a fear, Jon reassures him.
> 
> Jon panics. Martin reassures him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> !!! Fair warning, there is a scene where a character panics and is overstimulated/having an anxiety attack. It's pretty integral to the chapter, but if you want to avoid the description of the reaction, then stop reading at "When they finally made it off the train[...]" and pick back up at "Jon allows himself to be tugged along[...]"
> 
> TRIGGER WARNINGS for this chapter also include discussions of homophobia 
> 
> On another note, I'd like to thank @lofi_charm (soap) and @reefsharkivist (alex) for beta-ing this chapter! I love you both mwah! Give them a shout on twitter! 
> 
> I hope you enjoy! Leave a comment or kudos, I appreciate every single one <3

Jon and Martin were currently boarding the train headed for Edinburgh. They both had scarcely managed to pull themselves together in time to do so, in between the joking, and the kissing, and the nervous energy spurring their antics between them-- they barely made it. 

After their conversation died down at breakfast, Martin told him as they were cleaning up that he would be briefing him on his family members soon, just not now. He had said so before shoo-ing him towards their bedroom to pack and get dressed.

The morning passed by in a blur after that: the rushed packing and fumbling to gather together their necessities, the kisses snuck in between, and one man always distracting the other. Time tended to slip through the fingers when it was spent with the people who truly mattered. 

Jon watched as Martin lifted their luggage into its compartment above their seats. He knew better, now, than to attempt to help. His arms were small and fragile where Martins were substantial and powerful. 

So he stood out of Martin’s way as he settled their luggage. When he was done, the large man sat down with a huff, setting his backpack down next to his legs on the floor. Jon moved to join him, sitting down with much less force, and even less tact, sinking into the cushions with a huff to match his partner's.

It had been a hectic morning, and this felt like the first time since breakfast that they’d been able to breathe. Now, they had at least 6 hours (an hour on this train, 5 on the one in Edinburgh) to think, to talk, and to rest before the coming days business consumed them again. As Jon pondered what they should do with this time, Martin rifled through his bag, pulling out earbuds and a small travel pillow. 

“It feels strange. Going back to London, to England, at least. So much has happened.” Jon remarked. 

“Yeah, I think it’ll be strange being back. It seemed like such a long time since we were there last,” he paused, “I’m just hoping we’ll be safe. Hopefully, no murderous eldritch beings still want your-- _our_ \-- heads,” he laughs nervously, the strained noise betraying how worried he truly is. He's wringing his fingers, too. 

Martin is a smart man, he has a point. That was the reason they left London, after all. Murderous eldritch beings. 

“Martin, listen--look at me, ” Jon grabs his fluttering fingers, placing a steady hand atop them, the other hand coming to rest on a rosy cheek. He draws a breath and meets Martin’s eyes. 

“I was stronger than Elias-- than Jonah, when we left the Institute a year ago. I’m even stronger now. If any monsters want to hurt us, let them try it--”

“--Jon!” he squeaked, his voice sounded more panicked, almost pleading. Convincing this man not to _fight the murderous eldritch beings_ was harder than he thought it’d be. 

“Martin, we’re _both_ stronger now,” he’s still looking at Martin, gazing at him intensely, Jon squeezes Martin’s hands. 

“Let. Them. Try.” his green eye shone faintly, whether from the morning light or something else, Martin couldn’t discern, but it was absolutely _breathtaking_. 

“Okay,” Martin huffed, conceding. “But you’re not going into it alone, got it?” his voice allowed no room for protest, that was an order. Jon smiled, his eyes sparkling.

“Got it.” 

Someone cleared their throat, and the two men spun around to find an attendant with a cart, inquiring about drinks. Martin took some orange juice, in the absence of tea, and Jon took seltzer. As the attendant wheeled away the cart, Jon decided that, since they had time, they should use it. 

“Martin, we should probably talk about some things before we get settled. I know this has been a popular topic of discussion as of late, but I should probably know a little bit about your family before meeting them, yes?” Jon is smiling at him, hoping to keep the mood light. 

Martin huffs, “I suppose it's about that time, yes.” 

He begins to open facebook and go through each family member who is likely staying at his grandmother’s house for the holidays. 

Martin tells him about his uncle Léo and his aunt Vivienne, or Vivi.

“Vivi is my mother’s younger sister. I haven't seen either of them since before I came out. So I haven't talked with them in at least 6 years, and I was a _very_ different person then,” he explains, “so I really have no idea how they’ll react to me, or to you, Jon. Because they don’t even know who I really am. ”

The last time Martin remembers being with them, Vivi was pregnant. That baby would be five or six, by about now. He doesn’t know anything about this baby because he doesn’t follow his family on social media, he’s only looking now because he has to. 

“They seemed like very easy-going people, for as long as I knew them, anyway.” 

Throughout Martin’s explanations, Jon nods with rapt attention, his warm brown eye and his intense green one piercing through Martin, pinning him down like a butterfly for examination. 

“Next, there’s my uncle Hugo, my mother’s step-brother,” Martin inhales, there's a line of tension in his shoulders. 

“He was able to go to some fancy Uni in Paris while my mother struggled to pay for medicine that helped her survive. He’s a stuck up prick,” Jon grinned at him a little--Martin never used to be so openly crass about people. 

“And he, he was--” Martin paused, wringing his hands once again. 

“It’s okay, Martin. Take your time,” Jon placed his hand atop Martin’s. 

“He was just--this is so dumb--,” Martin exhaled a puff of frustration, “he’s just, so _passive aggressive_ , he said he supported me, but everything that came out of his mouth was just so--,” Martin couldn’t find the words, “I don’t know. He made me feel _small_. Like somehow, I was lesser than him for not getting a college degree, or because I’m supposedly not a _‘real man’_ ,” he forms air quotes around 'real man', the last part bringing back that hardness in his eyes--the hardness shielding his heart from the world. 

Jon hated that look, because it reminded him there was nothing he could do to heal the scars that forced up those protective barriers. That the best he could do for Martin was accept his gilded heart as it was. 

Martin sucked in a harsh breath, “I’m-- I’m sorry, Jon. This is harder than I thought.” 

“It's okay, Martin. And--” Jon pauses, slightly panicking over what to say. Martin was always better at saying the right things than he. But Martin needed him, now. 

“--Your feelings aren’t dumb, your uncle is.” Jon hoped to inject some humor into his words. As bad at emotions as he is, it was worth it to try. 

“Yeah, my dumb uncle, who has a doctorate in law,” Martin knew it was slightly childish, but that didn’t stop him from saying it. He had his work cut out for him, Jon thought to himself lightly. 

“Yes, well, laws are dumb, aren’t they, Martin?” Jon prompts, a grin spreading on his lips. 

“Heh-- be gay, do crime. Isn’t that right, Jon?” Martin is smiling now.

“Yes, Martin,” Jon’s grin turns into a smile, and he chuckles, eyes sparkling, “That’s right.” 

Jon squeezed their joined hands, “Do you want to keep going? We can stop, if you like.” 

Martin’s grin fades. Jon immediately misses it. 

“I suppose I can tell you some more.” 

And so he does. Martin tells him about his other uncle, Arthur, and his wife, Suzanne. How they were an older couple, and smoked cigarettes with the same vigor as their French parents, his grandparents. 

Their hair was perpetually stuck in the 90s, and they both insisted after Martin came out that they were “okay with his condition” but asked that he stay away from their children--his cousins. 

He then went on to explain this blessing in disguise. Louis was the oldest of them. 5 years ago, he was 14. When Martin would see him again, Louis would be 19, and a different person, but --Martin suspected--not as changed deep inside as one would think. 

Louis had taken to making “calling his cousin slurs he learned from Papa,” into his favorite pastime at the one (disastrous) family gathering Martin had attended after he came out. As he said, he had very little hopes that Louis would be any different as a 19 year old. 

Margot, their youngest child, once 9 years old, would now be around 14, and was sort of a wild card. Most of them were, now, really. 

“I don’t think I know enough about the rest of them to tell you what they’re truly like. Margot must be, what, fourteen now? I genuinely don’t know how she’ll act, nowadays.” Martin shrugged, feigning nonchalance.

The hurt he felt over the dissonance, the cavern, between the people who were supposed to be his kin-- it was too much to face at the moment. But he realized, in that moment, that it hurt a little less than it used to. 

Jon’s green eye sparkled in the weird, supernatural quality that it tends to have, but if Jon sensed Martin's bluff, he said nothing. 

It always struck Martin how easily lying and pretending has always come to him. 

*****

The rest of the train ride fell away after their conversation died down. Jon fell asleep on the sturdy weight of Martin’s shoulder, and Martin drifted off, his head falling into Jon’s hair. They fit together like a puzzle piece.

The time between them was cursedly short, because in what felt like brief moments--but had actually been a half hour--they had to disembark the train at Edinburgh. 

Compared to the quiet peace between them, the train station was, to put it mildly, extremely chaotic. A week before Christmas at the Edinburgh Waverley, locals and tourists alike were bumping and pushing from all sides to get where they had to go in time. There was a certain ruthless nature to the people navigating the perils of public transportation during the holidays. 

Nonetheless, simply getting out of the train had required surprising effort on Jon and Martin’s part. Martin being large, and with even larger luggage, made it hard for him to push through the crowds in the aisles. Jon being too small, and easily pushed around, they frequently got separated and delayed. It was, to put it mildly, chaos.

When they finally made it off the train, Jon was utterly overwhelmed. Standing at the platform, people bumped him at all angles. Voices whizzed past his ears with powerful volume and dizzying in their varying intensities. The lights felt too _bright_. In that moment, Jon realized that it was his first time being in a crowded area in almost a year, and he felt dizzy. 

There were too many factors he couldn’t control. Standing outside and exposed on the platform of the train they just disembarked from, he'd suddenly had an intense need for their quiet spot on the train. 

There was simply too much to take in. To see. To hear. To _feel_. He couldn’t handle it, and more worryingly, couldn’t _control_ any of it. Montauk and her geriatric buddy could still be on the Hunt. Hell, _Daisy_ could still be on the Hunt, and they had never truly taken care of Jonah, and there was so much that could go _wrong_ and so many people out to hurt them and--

Jon vaguely registered the suitcase handle slipping from his grip and clattering to the ground. He barely heard the noises of dissent from the annoyed travelers around him. He heard but never processed Martin’s voice calling out to him. 

He felt so very far away, but also, painfully _here_. He felt something on his back, heavy and firm and _warm_ in a way only he could recognize, and let himself be tugged along by his partner. 

Jon had a faraway look in his eyes, those green and brown hues glazed over in a glassy look that he can only describe as overwhelmed, but he knew that wasn’t completely accurate. 

Jon had told him about this, about how crowded public places make him feel overwhelmed, to put it in layman’s terms. But Jon had used the term ‘sensory overload.’ Jon’s eyes were trained to the floor, and his hands were shaking. He doesn’t seem to remember Jon telling him that this was the type of reaction he usually has to overstimulation. Something about this seems different. 

Martin tried his best to remember what Jon had told him about it. Jon was always better at listening than him. He firmly pushed the thought away. It wasn’t helpful. When he remembered what he should do, he let his instincts lead him in what he knew best: care-taking. 

Jon allows himself to be tugged along, not bothering to take in the place or the people, and focusing on the floor and the heavy weight draped around his shoulders.

They enter a room that is significantly quieter, and less crowded. It’s a bathroom, Jon realizes. And he feels himself being led into a smaller stall. Martin ushers them into the tight space. They’re chest to chest, with how small the stall is. 

“Jon, my love,” Martin whispers quietly into his ear, his face far enough away that his breath doesn’t stimulate the man any further. 

“Jon, look at me,” Jon’s eyes meet Martin’s. His eyes start to lose their glazed quality as they dilate and focus in again on Martin. 

“Jon, do you think my sweater feels nice? Maybe you should feel it for me,” Martin coaxes him in a soft voice, and Jon slowly lifts a hand and shakily rests it on his chest, over his heart. 

“That’s it, easy does it,” Jon places a second hand on his chest, and then greedily wraps his arms around Martin, tracing the knitted stitches of his sweater with his fingers along Martin’s back, allowing its predictable pattern to ease his overstimulation. He stuffs his head into the crook of Martin’s neck. Martin bends down to meet him. The press of his body and the constant pressure feel like fresh air to a drowning man. 

“That’s it, focus on your breath, try to match it with mine,” Martin soothes. 

They stood there like that, for just a few moments, and breathed in time to the other. Jon spoke first. 

“What if they never went away, Martin,” 

“What went away? Who is ‘they’?” Martin questions. 

Jon pulls away from Martin, and when Martin sees the look in his eyes, the look of absolute _vulnerability_ and fear that pierce him straight through the heart. Pin him directly in place. He knows then there’s only one thing he could be talking about. 

“Of course they didn’t go away, Jon.” Martin says softly, gently, and strokes his arm. Jon tenses at his words. 

“But, like you said: we’re _both_ stronger now,” Martin looks at him with all the love he can manage, and allows a bright, fond smile to paint his face. 

“Let them try.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...andddd that's all folks! I hope you enjoyed this chapter! We always love a mutually supportive relationship >;D
> 
> Expect to see me again in another week, on January 8th! 
> 
> Come yell at me on twitter @olive_gardn or leave a comment, I love and appreciate them all. 
> 
> See you next week!


	4. An Introduction, and a Reintroduction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin and Jon finally make it back to London without any hitches of the eldritch variety.  
> Martin is reintroduced to a familiar face. Jon meets the family--or, well, _one_ member of them, at least.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again to my betas @lofi_charm (soap) and @reefsharkivist (alex) I love you both and I'm so grateful to you! 
> 
> TRIGGER WARNINGS FOR THIS CHAPTER WOULD INCLUDE A MAJOR SPOILER/REVEAL, so if you're concerned, then head to the end chapter notes. 
> 
> HOWEVER, I will say that this chapter DOES NOT involve:  
> -gore  
> -violence  
> -mention or explicit descriptions of phobias.  
> If you're worried about graphic imagery, violence, sexual content, or other potentially triggering physical violence/acts, then you don't have to check the notes. 
> 
> The trigger warning would mostly cover something related to interpersonal trauma to a specific minority group. 
> 
> It's quite tame, and I REALLY would like to keep it a surprise, but if this worries you in any way, do not hesitate to check the notes.

London, he found, had not changed. When they got off the train at the station, everything still looked and felt the same. Jon almost expected things to feel different, considering all that had happened here. But the world and the travelers carried on. 

Jon didn’t know what he had been expecting, really. That suddenly people would begin to question things because multiple people got attacked and trampled by a strangely large dog bursting from an academic institute? No, of course not. 

The business men still swindled and the landlords still sat on their asses and children continued to cry, to their parents chagrin. All of them unaware of the things he’d been through. Of the things he’d seen. Of the danger that lurked so close to them, but never close enough to spot. 

He still pondered the danger of coming back to London, to the very place they had escaped from in the first place. But Martin’s presence and confidence in him allowed him to stand a little taller, his hand to shake a little less. It almost allowed him to believe he could protect them both, too. But for now, he was content to cling to Martin’s hand like his life depended on it, while they weaved through the crowds of incompetent tourists, frustrated parents, and very angry middle aged women. 

When they finally greeted the cold city air of London, they were both thoroughly exhausted. Snow was gently falling from the darkened sky in generous, fat flakes, and there were glittering Christmas lights adorned on every street pole and business front that they could both see. 

There was still a steady flow of people coming behind them, urging them forward. They drew farther away from the exit of the train station to stand in a quiet spot to hail down a taxi. Martin said he wanted to avoid the tube because of their luggage, he said it was ‘a nightmare waiting to happen.’

Martin managed to hail a taxi with his large stature. They both collapsed into the worn seats, leaning into each other for support. Jon watched the lights of Christmas whiz past the window, casting moving shadows upon his and Martin’s form. He watched the lights catch in the grey pools of Martin’s eyes. 

They were exhausted, but Jon could tell that Martin’s body was tensing, his shoulders were shifting towards his head in a defensive position. He was winding up like the music box his grandmother gave him as a kid. His eyes, the closer they got to their destination, began looking akin to that of a caged animal, a deep sort of fear that was hard to shake--caused by the scars that emerge from a childhood fought through rather than experienced. 

Jon places his hand atop Martin’s hand resting on the cushion in between them. The silence suddenly seemed thick with fear and nervous energy, at least, now Jon was beginning to notice it. 

“Martin,” Jon breaks the long-lasting silence between them. Martin makes a noise of assent. 

It was rare, (back in their archival days, before the wax museum) that whenever Martin was stressed or was having a bad day, he would only answer Jon with a nod or a grunt of acknowledgement. Like the feelings had choked him, and talking would simply be too much. It hadn’t happened in a long time, a couple months, maybe, but Martin hadn’t had anything to be stressed about. 

His hand felt tense under Jon’s, flexing and relaxing. Jon swallowed, intending to ask that question he swallowed down what seemed like ages ago, but in all actuality, was this morning. 

“I uh-- just wanted to check. When you introduce me to your family, um--, I’m still your boyfriend, right?” Jon regretted the words the moment they came out.

This seemed to break Martin from his nonverbal streak almost immediately, and he sat up, tearing his hand away from Jon’s.

“Jon, what--?”

“That’s not what I meant, I-- ,” he took a steadying breath, “--I meant, will you still introduce me as your boyfriend? You uh- you don’t have to, I just want to be on the same page--”

“Jon, I--” Martin’s brows furrow together, looking shocked and confused, “--of _course_ I’m going to introduce you as my boyfriend! Who even takes their _friend_ home to Christmas? All of them know I’m gay, that’s a flimsy excuse at best,” Martin huffs, “No. If there’s going to be a problem with you--with us, then we’ll face it as _partners_. I’m not hiding on their behalf again.” 

Warmth blooms through Jon’s chest as he’s filled with happiness and contentment. He loves this man, so _very much_.

“Besides,” Martin chuckles sweetly, “I couldn’t deal with them without your hand to hold. It’s quite grounding, you know.” 

Martin smiles at him, his eyes glinting. The nervous edges of his features slightly smoothed by the love and warmth he feels--the knowledge that Jon is with him, is on his side, fills Martin with strength. 

The two men are shaken from their reverie when the car comes to a stop for what feels like the final time. The driver shifts the gear into park and--yep. This is it. 

The softness in Martin’s eyes from moments before fled like prey from predator, and replaced itself with a bright edge of uncertainty and unease. It was one thing to say they had each other’s backs, that their hands were the others to hold as an anchor. But it was an entirely different beast to _follow through_ on this promise--where most couples stumble and fall, losing their grip on each other. 

It seemed that Martin followed this line of thought at the same time Jon did, as his eyes held a question that Jon knew only he could answer. Jon smiled, bright and warm as he had just moments before, and offered his hand to Martin. When his large, warmer hand met Jon’s smaller, nimbler ones, the smaller hand squeezed the larger one. Tightly. Neither wanted to let go, but they had to in order to disembark the taxi. So reluctantly, they drew away. 

Gathering their things in his considerable arm span, Martin balanced their bags in his grip while Jon ambled aimlessly behind him like a lost puppy. The place they had come to face, Martin’s memée’s house, was considerable in size, but not extravagant. 

It was forty five minutes outside of London by tube, and grazing an hour by taxi. It was south of London, situated outside of a small town, and it was where Martin spent many lonely summers. 

The sights brought the memories back against his will. He pushed them away, pushed them _down_. He can’t lose his nerve before even stepping _inside_. 

He felt the chill in the air through his coat, down to his core. That aching that didn’t go away with time. The ache that he felt from all the things he’d lost--and the things he never got to have, all flooded back from the place he’d had it securely stored. 

His childhood was littered with aching chasms formed in his heart, where cold, thick grey mist inhabited the space of the depths. He knew it didn’t go away, it never would. Chasms don’t fade with time, they only get bigger if you don’t address them. 

His arms felt wobbly as they ascended the wooden steps of the porch, and he tripped on the final step, his knee landing punishingly into the icy wood. Their suitcases sprawled across the landing. Martin let out a surprised yell as his knees collided with wood and ice. He felt more than heard Jon come up behind him. 

“Martin?!” 

He was holding the fallen man’s arm, gripping it with concern. 

Martin moved to get up, “it’s fine, Jon. I’m--I’m fine.” 

They met each other’s eyes. 

“Martin--” Jon breathed. 

The door just in front of them opened slowly, creaking and protesting with the spurns of age and time. A smaller woman with dark olive skin had opened the door, standing behind the screen and looking, shocked, down at these two men whose belongings were sprawled across the doorstep. 

Martin met her eyes from his kneeling position on the porch. She squinted. Jon recognized her, vaguely, as Martin's aunt Vivienne--whether it was because of the Eye or because he remembered, he genuinely didn’t know. Jon held his breath, hoping her reaction was a good one. Her eyebrows shot up, and the shock mixed with a spark of recognition. 

“ M*****!? Is that you? You look so different! It’s so great to see you!” She was smiling, now, opening the door to let them in. 

Jon froze, and he felt Martin’s arm tense considerably under his grip. Jon had never heard that name before, and he suspected he was never meant to. He suddenly wanted to forget it more than anything, for Martin’s sake. 

Martin was shaking, and shocked out of his words. The kneeling man cleared his throat nervously.

“I uh--, actually, Vivi, my uh-, my name is Martin, now. Please don’t call me by that other name again,” when Martin spoke, his voice sounded infinitely stronger than he felt. Hearing that name felt like a shock to his system, a violent shift in the tectonic plates of his mind. He felt the chasm widening. 

“Oh! And you even sound different, too! My, you have grown, Martin!” she smiled as she tried the name on her tongue, experimentally. “I’m so sorry about that, my dear--oh, can I still call you ‘dear’?” 

Martin was standing, now, towering over the tiny woman, and smiling so widely that Jon thought his face would crack in half. He dipped down to hug the woman in his considerably large embrace, her small head with her tightly knotted bun was the only thing Jon could see of Vivi while trapped in his bear hug. 

Jon heard him whisper gratefully in her ear, voice breaking-- “of _course_ you can call me ‘dear.’” 

Jon smiled at the two, not wanting to break the moment. He was, however, shivering considerably, and tremors wracked his tiny frame while he watched them hug. 

When Vivi opened her eyes, still in the clutches of Martin’s large arms, she darted her eyes towards the smaller, dark man with long salt and pepper hair and strange eyes. She noticed him shivering, and slapped Martin’s shoulder. 

“You bloody dolt!” Martin pulled away from the woman, his hands still resting on her small shoulders, eyes questioning and slightly scared (like a child about to receive a scolding) “you never introduced me to your partner!” she gasped indignantly. 

Martin grinned, “To be fair, we _were_ just having a moment.” 

“Oh, shush with you! Come inside. Let me get you both some tea. You and Mystery Man must be positively freezing. _Then_ you’ll introduce us.” 

She helped them both through the door, holding open the ancient thing so Martin could squeeze their bags through, Jon following behind, quickly realizing he was severely out of his depth. 

The house was bathed in warm lighting, old fashioned lamps hung from the walls and ceiling, casting everything in a sepia glow. When he walked in, he saw a kitchen to his right, adorned with charming wooden countertops, old rusting appliances, and a stainless steel fridge that looked like it came from the early 2000’s.

There were pots hanging above the main island, shimmering and swaying slightly on their rusty rack attached to the ceiling by chain, secured like a light fixture, but metal and rounded and full of dangling pots. 

The metal sink was situated in front of a window, framed with light yellow curtains. The walls were covered with a light, minty green wallpaper with sprawling pink flowers, neatly dispersed. It wasn’t entirely atrocious, for its age. 

To his left, Jon saw an impressive stone fireplace, the large gray rocks spanning the entire wall vertically, the large, rounded rocks impressively protruding from their cemented spots. The living room area had a large ceiling, with the second floor overlooking it, and Jon could see doors littering the second floor hallway from his spot at the entrance. 

There was no wallpaper over here, it seemed like a much older section of the house, because the walls were simple wooden logs, dark and large. The carpet in front of the fireplace was a soft, faded mustard yellow. The couches were leather, light brown, and worn with age. The coffee table around the circle of chairs seemed a newer fixture, glass with wrought iron legs. 

The first floor was… _cozy_. Jon thought. But Martin’s face betrayed his discomfort, he must seem to think otherwise. 

Vivi was talking, saying something about the rest of the gang being at the pub, that they’ll be back any moment. Jon came back to himself, feeling a pang of guilt for zoning. 

They both sat at the stools by the kitchen counter while they watched her putt around, finding an old, bright blue kettle, retrieving teabags. The process was familiar, and watching her seemed to ease Martin and Jon alike. 

Vivi seemed to be asking Martin trivial questions, blessedly noticing Jon’s attentions elsewhere, but when she places their tea in front of them, there's a glint in her eye. 

“So,” she begins, a grin widening across her face, “who’s this handsome piece of ass?” 

Martin was in the middle of testing his tea when her comment sent him coughing and spluttering, completely flustered, his face red. Jon wasn’t faring any better, he was currently wishing to disappear from behind his scarred hands. He was a fully grown man, for god sake--but the woman spoke like he wasn’t sitting _right there!_

“Vi--” Martin tries to speak, coughs violently, and clears his throat again. 

“Vivi!” Martin finally manages, his voice cracking. But Vivi simply stands there, unaffected, with a shit eating grin on her face. “He’s right here!” Martin yelps. 

“Well?” she prompts, turning her eyes to Jon. Her eyes were almost a mirror image of Martin’s (save for the color), but leagues more intense. 

If Martin’s eyes were an ocean, Vivi’s were a forest fire. He felt pinned by them in a way he’s never felt before (the stare felt almost protective?), not even in front of people like Elias. A stare that intense wasn’t something you were simply _given_ by something like a supernatural being, a hard look like that was _earned_. He swallowed. 

“I uh-- my name is Jonathan Sims, but you can call me Jon.” 

“Ah, _Jon_ , nice to meet you,” she said his name like a challenge. A challenge to what, Jon had no clue, but it intimidated him. 

“And where did you two meet?”

Martin went on to explain the first time they met, animatedly talking about the dog he had accidentally let loose into the archives, how pissy yet _cute_ Jon looked when he met him for the first time, the line of his wonderful mouth turned downwards into the cutest pout Martin came to love even more over the years (he didn’t say _all_ of that). 

They left out the stories of eldritch monstrosities and traumatic events that killed off most of their friends, and mostly just gave Vivi a loose retelling of their time at the Magnus Institute. A _very_ loose telling. 

Martin and Jon were halfway through telling Vivi a half-truth about the time they got locked into document storage during an emergency (an abridged version of Prentiss’ attack, if you will), when the old door whined and groaned itself open, and a burst of cold air rushed through. 

The chatter of a large number of people floated from behind the door. Jon remembered what Vivi had said earlier--the whole family went out to a pub in town, she stayed behind to keep the house warm and make sure memée and their kid were okay. 

The harsh sound of winter boots meeting old wood fills the air as Martin’s family files in, babbling away at each other, none of them yet privy to their presence. Jon tensed slightly. 

Vivi was excellent--kind, even. But Jon remembered what Martin had said about these people, and, as he understood it, they were quite less so. Martin was thinking the same thing, apparently, as he could feel him tense beside him. 

Martin was looking for one person in particular. Not because he was excited to see them again--it was quite the opposite. 

He searched for dark, burnt caramel hair pulled back into a severe ponytail, and found it hiding in the middle of the group, nestled in-between two of his uncles. She was holding the hand of another man. The owner of said ponytail turned her head, and her severe hazel eyes met his gray ones. 

_Angela_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING FOR THE CHAPTER:  
> \- deadnaming
> 
> (NOTE: his deadname, for sensitivity purposes, is not revealed to the reader. It is merely implied through asterisks that a character is saying his deadname to him. No other forms of transphobia occur within the chapter.) 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! 
> 
> Next chapter, we finally pullin out the big guns, its the ENTIRE FAMILY now, babey!! lets see how Martin copes :,))). 
> 
> Who else guessed that Martin was trans? I've been sprinkling in clues since the first chapter ;))) Give me a comment below and tell me what you think! 
> 
> I'll be adding appropriate transphobia tags next week, as that's when it really starts hittin hard :,)
> 
> Next update is 1/15, see you all then! <33


	5. Confrontation: A Blast from the Past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Martin come face-to-face with the entire family, and they both must navigate what that means for each other. 
> 
> Later on, Martin faces his past, and reconciles with someone special.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to thank my beta's for this chapter, Alex @reefsharkivist, and Birdie @bigbabybunnie2 on twitter! They've both been so helpful :))
> 
> This chapter is a little bit longer than the one's y'all are used to! But it has a lot of really important scenes that are special to me, and I've been so excited to post for a long time! 
> 
> However, this chapter is Really Dense, it carries many emotionally heavy things in it, especially for my fellow transgender folks who are reading.  
> It deals in transphobia, and dives into what it means to leave 'bad' family behind--and the guilt of leaving 'good' family behind too. It could be traumatic for some folks to read, so please take your time with this one! I really worked hard on it to make sure it did justice to the things I'm talking about, so don't do _yourself_ an injustice by reading when you're not ready! 
> 
> With that said, TRIGGER WARNINGS FOR THIS CHAPTER//
> 
> \- deadnaming (the name itself is never explicitly revealed, and is implied through asterisks) 
> 
> \- misgendering (it's in another language, and its unknowing)
> 
> \- transphobia in general (this chapter really dives into this part of his life, and even describes his appearance from when he was young and "non-passing" in vague detail)
> 
> Also! I am part French, and this fic has included some french terms for family in it, mainly for Martin's grandmother. The way that he says it "memée" is pronounced ((mem-may)). Just thought that might be helpful! 
> 
> Anyways, I hope you enjoy this chapter! I subsist upon comments and kudos ;)

“Woah, M*****, did your eyes change? You look so different now!” his uncle, Léo, called out to him amiably from the front of his crowded relatives. 

Martin opened his mouth to respond, “actually, I--” 

“--Yeah, what’s up with that? Your eyes look totally creepy, like you’ve gone blind or somethin’,'' the ableist little bane of Martin’s existence, Louis, called out from behind his father Arthur, peaking his weasley little head out from behind his father’s back like a scared yet equally pesky game animal. 

Arthur was looking at Martin, staring at him oddly, like he was trying to figure out just how much Martin had changed since the last time he saw him. Martin shrunk in on himself. 

Suzanne, his wife, was looking at him like she had years ago--for those few days between him coming out and him leaving in a fit of rage. The content and slightly buzzed smile slid off her face like a landslide, and something harder revealed itself underneath. 

His half uncle, Hugo, stared at him as one would a lab experiment. All the while Louis and his younger sister, Margot, babbled in his direction, asking rapid fire questions about his appearance that were _definitely_ too personal that Martin was only half listening to. 

The other family members were either staring at him, or trying to ask him questions. His hands were shaking, and his brain felt like splitting in half with the barrage of voices. He felt like they were picking him apart like carrion birds, leaving him bleeding at his core. 

Suddenly he couldn’t hear what they were saying at all. He felt a weight in his hand, and realized it was Jon’s. He was tightly squeezing his gentle and thin fingers. Crushing them. Martin’s mouth opened and closed like a fish. He floundered. But then he heard a deep and raspy voice. A familiar one. 

_**”Quiet.”**_ Jon’s voice filled the room, permeating through the walls and through the minds of everyone in the house. It felt like the static emitted from televisions. Martin could feel it on his tongue, like seltzer. Jon’s tone was even--calm, almost. But there was an undercurrent of protectiveness and threat that lingered through the static that filled the air. 

The whole family stood there, silent in the buzz of the electric atmosphere. They all stared at the strange, small man with the long salt and pepper hair and heterochromia eyes-- now standing beside his partner, hand on his shoulder protectively. 

Martin cleared his throat, “Ah, I-- I would like to be called Martin. Please do not use that other name again. And don’t mind my partner, he used to be in a band!” Martin laughed nervously, wringing his hands, “his voice tends to have s--some _power_ behind it.” Jon struggled to stifle a giggle into his fist quietly beside him, Martin elbowed him. 

Angela stepped forward, making herself known after being otherwise uncharacteristically quiet. Her arms were crossed. There was a man that followed behind her, as well. He was tall where she was short, and had a pale, plain looking face, and his aura was quite demure. He was all angles but somehow _not,_ given that he possessed the physique of a rectangle. 

Angela nods her head towards them, indicating Jon. 

“Who is this,” she demands. A hush descends over the room for a different reason. They all suddenly seemed to remember what happened six years ago. They all could feel the history in the air, even Jon could. He had extricated his hand moments before--when Martin was crushing it--but now he once again placed his smaller hand into Martin’s larger one. Martin straightened, as he hadn’t noticed the way his shoulders had drawn in defensively, instinctively curling in on himself. 

Martin cleared his throat, “He’s my partner. His name is Jon.” Martin met her eyes. She narrowed them. 

“Hm,” a noise of detachment was her only acknowledgment of Jon’s existence. She turned to leave, bumping past her partner, not even bothering to introduce him. The rest of the group had begun to disperse from where they had been mingling at the entrance. Vivi still stood behind the counter, and she moved to grab Martin’s shoulder. He flinched. 

“Ah! Oh-- sorry,” he smiled apologetically. Jon recognized that smile one that after five years together, Jon wouldn’t forget. 

“It’s quite alright, dear. Come with me, let’s get you two to your room, nice and settled.” She gave a friendly smile, and Martin felt yet another pang of gratitude for his aunt. 

Martin, once again, carried their luggage, while Jon continued to feel useless, trailing behind him and Vivi, down the hallway leading towards the second floor, which cut in between the kitchen and the living room, through the center of the house. 

There were a couple rooms littered along the darker lit hallway, with the staircase at the end. Martin was ahead of him, so he almost ran into the larger man’s back when he stopped abruptly, fumbling with the suitcases. Vivi was already on the third step, looking down at the man with concern. 

“Is everything alright, Martin?” Vivi asks

“I--Uh--quite. Quite alright!” his voice broke slightly, but he heaved the bags back into his grip nonetheless. 

“Martin?--” 

“It’s _fine,_ Jon.” The man grit out. Martin took a decisive step forward, and so Jon followed. But no sooner did the smaller man notice the various pictures that littered the walls. 

His eyes found a picture, centered just at eye level. And Jon understood Martin’s fumbling almost instantly. 

The picture contained two young kids, beaming at the camera, with their mother positioned behind them, her hands settled on both of their shoulders. Jon could tell that the smaller, thinner girl in the picture was Angela, with shy yet calculating eyes. The other child looked nothing like the person Jon knew he would become. The little kid was pudgy, smiling widely. He was wearing the traditional garb of young girls, his hair short and curly. The curls shined in the picture, just as they did in real life, like strands of gold.

This time, the kid had hazel eyes. The same hazel that Jon saw when they had met, before he was caught up in the haze of the Lonely. Jon knew what the deadname he’d heard at the door meant, and Martin had talked about it with him before. But this was something different.

Seeing him like this--in a way that betrayed who he truly was, who he had always been, sent a spike of guilt through Jon. He wished he’d never seen this, but now that he had, he would still continue to love the other man for who Jon knew him as, not anything else. It was the least he could do. 

Martin was shaking. His arms struggled with the baggage where it never had before, and it took all his willpower not to drop everything right then and _run_.

He knew, in the back of his head, that these pictures of him would still be here. But only just now, when he saw that picture of him, his sister, and his mother, did it fully sink in. He looked into those hazel eyes that he used to have, and they looked right back. He couldn’t tear his gaze away fast enough. 

And what of Jon? Everything the man must’ve seen in him would change because of this, right? He couldn’t possibly see this and not think of him differently. God, he really was just the same little kid in those pictures, wasn’t he? Lonely, afraid, and deeply frustrated, and so, _so_ determined to _leave_. Because the truth of it was, he’d thought if he could transition, if he could go away far enough, maybe he would never think of himself as the little kid in that picture ever again. He could _finally_ be the person he wanted--one that never shrunk back when faced with his past. 

But in one second, he found himself catapulted back to square one, almost as if he was back in those very sparkly shoes in the picture, and he realized that perhaps nothing had changed at all. That maybe, he could’ve run as far away as he wanted, and changed his name and his appearance to _anything,_ and it never would’ve mattered. He would always be the scared and angry child in the picture, wouldn’t he? 

He was deep in thought before he realized that Vivi, and his feet, had led him to the doorway of their room. He practically hurled the bags onto the floor, clenching his shaking hands into fists immediately. 

He heard Jon saying his thanks to Vivi, while she expressed some concern, but ultimately backed down. There was a beat of silence when the door clicked, and then they were alone. 

“Martin--” 

_”Jon--”_ Martin breathed out, and he lost it. His composure, his wits, everything. He turned around, and barreled into the smaller man, wrapping his arms around him tight--with a grip like a vice--and burying his head into the crook of Jon’s neck, despite having to bend over to do so. 

He _sobbed_. His hands gripped Jon’s jumper, tightly digging into the fabric, twisting and pulling in the overwhelming _agony_ he felt. Martin felt as though the chasm in his heart, hollowed by all the pain of the past, had split so wide it threatened to tear him apart--maybe that was the pain he was feeling. He certainly felt torn up. 

“Martin, I--, I am _so_ sorry,” the hands gripping the back of Jon’s clothes clenched impossibly tighter in response. 

Martin sniffled, and gained back some composure, but tears still flowed steadily from his weary eyes. Martin didn’t move, but he spoke softly into Jon’s collarbone. 

“Am I still Martin to you, Jon?”

“Wh-What? Martin--”

Martin lifted his head from Jon’s shoulder to speak to the wall ahead of him, knowing Jon’s ear was tuned in. “It’s been six years, Jon. Six. And somehow-- somehow I _still_ feel like that little kid in the picture. Even after all this time. Transition made me feel so much better. But nobody here respects it, I can tell. I feel like I’m 24 again. God, I can’t take this anymore--I thought things would _change_ \--” 

“Martin--”

“But even still, I can’t ever erase that person. And if I can’t, does that mean I ever stopped being them? Stopped experiencing the hurt? Even if I moved far away?--”

Jon put his hands on both of Martin’s shoulders, and pushed him back to face him. He looked into his gray eyes fiercely. “Martin. You are still _you_. You can’t erase that person, because it's _you_. You are still the man I met in 2016 and you will _continue_ to be that man. I don’t know the person in those pictures, and I don’t have to. You are wonderful, handsome, _and_ strong, Martin. I haven’t ever known you to be otherwise.” 

Jon found the words spilling from his lips. He’d never talked this way to anyone before, not in recent memory. But the tears spilling down Martin’s plump cheeks and the tremors in his strong shoulders looked and felt so incredibly upsetting to the other man that he didn’t think about the words he was saying--just the same as he never thinks before he acts. 

Martin looked stunned, but unconvinced. He had a slight blush on his cheeks, whether from the compliments or the crying, Jon hadn’t the slightest clue.

Martin looked at Jon, and he knew that the man wasn’t lying about what he said, but he still had his doubts. Even after all these years, when he came back into this house, he experienced the same dread that he had always felt. 

Coming back here, for all his years as a teen, meant dealing with people who he knew would not accept him for the person he was. He thought that transitioning would change things when he came back, make him more apt to stand up to the chilling and judgmental faces that bore down on him as they did tonight. But instead he felt himself caving in, cowardly as ever. He hadn’t changed a bit--even despite his best efforts to distance himself from the person he was before his transition. And that realization _crushed_ him. 

Jon’s hands were on him, now. Rubbing small circles into the small of his back, easing him towards the softness of the bed. 

But there came a knock at the door, and it froze them both in their tracks. Jon sighed deeply. He had been dreaming about collapsing into something soft for the past hour. Despite not having used his body a lot, traveling still took it out of him. Not to mention, Martin really looked like he could use some quiet. 

His hands reluctantly left the planes of Martin’s back, and the smaller man approached the door, cracking it open to only show his face through. Hopefully allowing Martin some privacy.

It was Angela. They narrowed eyes at each other. Green and brown to harsh hazel. 

“Hello. Can I help you?” Jon clipped. 

“I just need _him_ to go see his grandmother. She says she wants to see _him_.” she said Martin's pronouns as if it took a great deal of energy out of her. Jon suddenly had the urge to snap at her like a rubber band. But it was only the first night, not even. 

__“He doesn’t _need_ to do anything--” _ _

__“Jon,” Martin laid a hand on the man’s shoulder, Jon hadn’t heard his approach, “it’s okay. I want to see her.”_ _

__“Oh, okay. Are you sure you’re up for it?” Jon looked understandably worried. Martin nodded. “Would you like me to come with you, for support? Or--”_ _

__“Yeah, I would like that.” Martin smiled, and they joined hands in the doorway. Angela heard his confirmation from behind the door, and Martin could hear her footsteps receding down the hall without a word._ _

__Approaching this woman’s room, of whom Jon has never met, felt incredibly nerve-wracking. The way Martin’s voice had sounded when he talked about her, the way it filled with reverence and affection, made the other man implicitly understand how important this was._ _

__Jon gripped Martin’s hand ever tighter, slightly ashamed that he still needed the other man's implicit support, when it was _Martin_ who truly needed it more than Jon. _ _

__He realized they had come to a stop, and quickly centered his thoughts. He would be here for Martin just as the other man has been there for him all these years: at his side during nightmares, bringing him tea when he was tired and cold, forcing him to eat when his stomach growled angrily. Jon drew in a breath._ _

__Martin’s large hand stilled in front of the wood of the door, his fisted hand poised in the air uselessly. The full situation had only occurred to him once or twice over these past couple weeks. He’d avoided the subject because of the sheer amount of trauma surrounding what it meant to _go for a visit to memée’s_. _ _

__

__Thinking about it, even just prodding the edges of the thoughts, threatened to drown him wherever he stood. He had only hoped to cross that bridge when he arrived at that point, but it appeared he had already attempted to cross the bridge, and was currently drowning in the river below._ _

__

__His breath suddenly felt stilted, he couldn’t feel his toes, and the fingers clasped into a fist in front of him felt so far away, despite the crescent-shaped pin pricks that his fingernails were making in the force of his grip._ _

__

__The woman he admired so much was _dying_. And not only could he not do anything to stop it--just like all the others who’d left his life-- but he hadn’t _been here_. He hadn’t been here _on purpose_. She should be angry, she ought to kick him out of her house on the spot. He didn’t deserve a goodbye. Why should he get one? He never got that with any of the others--Tim, Sasha, _his own mother_ , even Jon, for a time. They all left, and took massive pieces of Martin’s heart with them. _ _

__

__Just when he thought he couldn’t give anymore, his heart found a way to shuck off another piece of itself._ _

__

__Martin simply stood there, hand poised just inches from the thick, dark wood of the door. He stared into the grains like he saw a face he recognized in the lines formed by age. Jon was worried, so he extricated his hand from Martin’s, and gently placed it on the small of his back. Standing on the tips of his toes, he leaned forward near Martin’s ear, but not enough to tickle his ear with his breath._ _

__

__“Martin--you can do this. I’m here for you,” and Jon kissed his shoulder through the fabric of his shirt lightly. Suddenly Martin was looking at him with a glint in his eyes that he didn’t recognize, something resembling resolve._ _

__

__Jon _believed_ in Martin. And his grandmother _wanted_ him here, for better or for worse. Even though he didn’t think he deserved it, the least he could do was take advantage of the gift she was giving him: the gift of closure. Martin opened the door. _ _

__

__

__

__She lay in her bed at the center of the room. Vivi told Martin that, despite her condition, she refused to be relocated downstairs for easier mobility--away from the familiarity of her bed, from the room that her and her husband once occupied together. No matter that it was inconvenient--his memée was stubborn._ _

__

__Her hair was splayed out across the many pillows used to prop her up, like silver veins. She looked almost as Martin remembered her--but a lot more haggard. She looked so much more worn down that Martin was taken aback at the difference, the dissonance between the picture he once had in his head, and the one laying right before him was stark._ _

__

__“Ah, _ma bonbon_ ,” her voice was raspy, and dragged like boots through gravel in the air between them. Martin blushed at the old nickname._ _

__

__“Je vois que tu as beaucoup modifié. Quel eu evénement à toi, ma bonbon,” she sounded so incredibly sad, but her voice made evident that even in her long life, the woman simply wanted to understand, not reject._ _

__

__Hearing this willingness in his grandmother’s voice--from a woman so stubborn she wouldn’t move her legs to walk if you told her to--had filled his heart with happiness, repairing just a fragment of the hurt that fractured his heart._ _

__

___“Memée,”_ he breathed, the word catching in his throat. _ _

__

__He slowly walked over to her bed. When he made it there, he sunk to his knees next to her bedside. They hit the floor with a dull ‘thunk,’ and a futile, creaking protest from the floorboards._ _

__

__“J-J’suis désolée, memée.” There were tears in his eyes, and tightness clenching his throat, “J'aurais du être ici.” He clenched his fists at his side. He couldn’t even look her in the eyes._ _

__

__Under the blankets, Martin could see her arms trembling, like they wanted to move. He hadn’t the slightest idea _where_ they intended to go. _ _

__

__“Ma chérie, regarde moi,” her voice was so incredibly soft, encouraging, even. “Tu es ici, maintenant. C’est assez.” He placed his hand on top of hers buried underneath the blanket, and he smiled. She smiled back, a creaky and fickle thing that seemed to be like a crack in wood, barely there, but noticeable to those paying attention. Her eyes sparkled, and that’s how Martin could tell._ _

__

__Those eyes lifted from him quickly enough, and honed in on the small figure by the door. Her eyes were no longer soft, solidifying like concrete in the presence of a stranger._ _

__

__The look in her eyes suddenly reminded him that _Jon_ was here, and he whipped his head around to see the expression on his face._ _

__

__His mouth was agape in a soft ‘O’ shape, his eyes sparkling as if he just discovered treasure, he was looking at Martin, amazed._ _

__

__“I didn’t know you could speak French…” he said softly, quiet amazement painting his face._ _

__

__Martin wasn’t looking at his grandmaman, so when she spoke again, sharp and grating, it startled him._ _

__

__“M*****. Qui est-ce.” Even after being sick for so long, she could still make her voice as sharp as broken glass._ _

__

__“Ah, memée?” Martin whipped his head back to her, and drew in a deep breath, “Je n’utiliser pas ce nom plus. C’est Martin, maintenant.”_ _

__

__“Ya? And? J’ai demandé un question, Martin.”_ _

__

__Where her face once formed a feeble smile, it was now etched into a deep frown, the lines of her face pulled down taut like bedsheets. She was scolding him, but he still felt like his heart was exploding-- _she’d used his name_! With zero hesitation, no less. _ _

__

__“Oh! Yes, memée. C’est Jon. Mon uh-- mon partenaire romantique.”_ _

__

__Martin didn’t necessarily have to delineate that Jon was his _romantic partner_ , but his grandmaman was from a different time, and he wanted the message to be _very_ clear. He’d been called Jon’s ‘friend’ one too many times for his liking. He’d figured he would give his partner the benefit of this clarity. _ _

__

__“Jon, venez ici.” she snapped out, in her usual form. She may be sick, but Martin was learning very quickly that a spitfire will always be just that._ _

__

__Martin looked over at Jon just in time to see his spine snap straight like a loose string pulled taut. Very carefully, he walked over stiffly, coming to stand next to Martin, on the side farthest from memée. This man had been to places worse than the very human conception of hell, and he was scared of Martin’s _grandmother_. Martin almost had to stifle a giggle. _ _

__

__“Jon,” she tested the name once again on her lips, “You will be good to my boy, yes?” she said, in perfectly accented English. The question was certainly not phrased or intoned as such. Jon gulped._ _

__

__Martin remembered as a child, that her greatest joy was pretending she only knew one language, wielding her second language as a weapon for embarrassment--or intimidation._ _

__

__“Of course,--uh,” he paused, blushing. He floundered for a moment, like he had no idea which honorific to use--he really was cute when he panicked in mundane situations._ _

__

__“Celeste.” she met Jon’s eyes, “Call me Celeste.”_ _

__

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Martin-unfortunately-for this fic, is part French,,,,but why is no one else but him and memée speaking it? we will find out. 
> 
> I hope the french wasn't too bad to figure out/translate! If any fluent french speakers are reading this....do not perceive me...
> 
> Anyways fellas, I'll see you all next week on the 22nd for the next chapter, where i finally give y'all the fluff you deserve, and also,,,,some conflict??? oH?? some tension?? See you then >;)


	6. The Calm and the Brewing Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin and Jon enjoy a bit of respite. 
> 
> That is, until the morning comes, and certain family members begin to chip at the pillars holding up the dam.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter hasn't been beta'd, we die like men. 
> 
> **CONTENT WARNINGS:**  
>  \- homophobia  
> \- deadnaming (brief, deadname in asterisks)  
> \- sexual innuendo  
> \- Dub-con (extremely mild-they don't give explicit consent, its implied, so I'm tagging just to be safe. It's clearly mutually enthusiastic.)
> 
> I had SOO much fun writing this one, its a lot longer than usual updates, so I hope y'all enjoy it as much as I did creating it! 
> 
> comments and kudos are appreciated, everyone! I hope you all enjoy :)

Martin was exhausted, but also content--mostly just with how his reconnection with his memée went. As content as he could be, under the current circumstances. After their brief discussion, his grandmaman insisted that he get sleep. 

At the moment, he lay in his and Jon’s newly made bed, and he listened to the soft sounds of rustling clothing coming from the bathroom. Martin held a book, but he wasn’t reading it. He stared emptily at the words, unseeing, and instead he thought of the ones his memée told him. 

_’C’est assez.’_

__

__

_It’s enough_.

He didn’t know what was worse--that he couldn’t believe her, or that she had attempted to tell him his absence was _alright_. Just because he couldn’t get a hold of his feelings. Jon had always told him he was selfless, but seeing the woman who partly raised him, the woman he _abandoned_ , in the sickly state she was in tonight--he couldn’t help but think that Jon had overstated.

 _Speak of the devil and he shall appear_ \-- the man emerged from the ensuite bathroom with (Martin’s) loose fitting clothes sagging off his form. His half bun from the day’s travels had been let down to reveal his wavy long hair in its full glory. He looked haggard, more so than he’d looked in a long time. Martin could only imagine how he himself looked if his partner was so weary.

Walking towards the bed in silence, he turned off lights and set things to rights as he made his way towards Martin. When he quietly slid under the duvet, he let out a sigh as he relaxed into the pillows against the headboard.

The quiet moments on the train had been nice, but being in public still had them on edge after everything that’s happened to them. Jon’s shoulders sagged, and some of the tension in them eased out in the quiet of Martin’s sturdy presence.

The silence between them felt heavier than ever, though--and Jon was never a particularly strong man. He could feel himself buckling under the weight of all that had happened tonight. He could sense Martin coiling up like a spring, ready for action--ready for a _fight_ \-- holding his breath and facing his book with an empty stare. Jon steeled himself, the tension returning to his shoulders.

“Martin,” he breathed quietly. He sat upright in the bed, stock still, like he sat next to a spooked animal and trying to prevent it from fleeing.

“Jon.” His voice was filled with warning, almost like a plea.

“You don’t have to say anything.” Jon said quickly, his voice resolute. The smaller man understood that his desire to _Know_ and _understand_ the other man was in no way as important as comforting him in this moment. His desire to make Martin feel safe trumped his preternatural desire to Know--eldritch fear gods be damned.

“It’s just--” Martin sniffled, “I know you probably have questions and--and we haven’t exactly _talked_ about the things you heard and saw. I just--” Martin huffed, and his shoulders slumped from their defensive and drawn up position.

“We don’t have to--”

“You don’t get it, Jon.” There were tears in his eyes now, “you’ve always seen me for the person _I wanted_ you to see me as, for better or for worse. Now you know--” he let out a shaky breath, unsteady as the footing on a balance beam, “Now you know exactly who I didn’t want you to see--the person that I was, and the person that _I_ selfishly abandoned. I just-- I just feel so _helpless_ because now I can’t control the ways you see me. I’m scared, Jon!” He let out a full sob, now, and it wracked through his whole body, sending tremors through the man that Jon could feel from his own side of the bed.

“You didn’t abandon her, she even said so.” Jon took a breath, his eyes were pleading, “And it’s okay--I mean, being misgendered and deadnamed is _not_ okay, but if you think that changes how I see you, then it's going to be okay, Martin.” Jon spoke softly, reaching his hand out to his shoulder.

“Because it changes _nothing_.”

Martin was shaking, his voice cracked and desperate. He recoiled away from his hand, “No-- No it’s _not_ okay!-- I’m so--”

“Martin.” he said his name patiently, affectionately. “Martin--look at me.”

The other man froze, the shivers wracking his body still continued, he stared into the sheets as if they were an expansive sky, tears running down his cheeks in fat rivulets--the book in his hand long forgotten. Jon slowly crawled over to the man. Nestling his chest into the larger man’s side, he placed his hand on the cheek facing away from him, and gently pressed it to turn Martin’s face towards his.

Jon’s brown eye was warm, and appeared as a liquid pool of gold in the sepia light--rich and all-encompassing in its affection. His green eye was starkly fierce and determined--glowing like a lighthouse, a beacon on the distant, foggy shore.

“Look at me, and tell me what you see.” He spoke gently, whispering the words and meeting the other man’s bright, sorrowful eyes. At his words, miraculously, Martin’s pained grimace turned into a dry grin.

“U-using the same tricks twice, eh, Sims?” His voice was watery, but he still continued to meet his gaze nonetheless, and Jon took that as his assent to do what he did next;

All at once, a series of images flooded Martin’s brain--and they were all of _him_. The images came with emotions that he could feel weren’t his, powerful and all-encompassing in their strength and magnitude. More notably, the accompanying emotions felt consistent--unchanged.

There were images of him from just today--sitting at his memée’s bedside and laughing wholeheartedly, happy tears in his eyes. The sheer amount of emotions and images felt like a tidal wave, and Martin was drowning in the raw emotion of it. His throat felt tight, because he knew what Jon was trying to tell him, and he finally allowed himself to understand it. 

Some of the images varied from the time they came from, but the emotions that accompanied them were the same--the same feeling of love and devotion and _care_ that the other man felt nearly choked him. He realized he experienced only a fraction of this love from his rescue from The Lonely, and, finally, he let the emotions wash over him like the realization he felt from it--Jon _loved_ him. More than that, he loved him _unconditionally_.

He was sobbing, now. The images of himself faded to replace Jon, who was sitting beside him, looking at him with warmth and determination. He didn’t waver or look intimidated by Martin’s raw display of emotions like he would’ve been one year ago. Instead, he continued to look lovingly into his eyes, meeting that raw emotion with his own. It was vulnerability beyond anything Jon had displayed to anyone _ever_.

Jon had fully cupped Martin’s face with his scarred hands, now. He found himself staring down at the man’s lips, which had since relaxed from when he was sobbing. But he wouldn’t surge forward like he normally would. In fragile moments like this one, he always asked--

“Martin,” he rubbed his soft, sloping cheekbone with his thumb. It was wet from all the tears. The other man, since stopped crying, looked into his eyes with a wide eyed expression. “Can-- can I?--”

Martin met him there before he even had the time to think, lips pressing insistently into his. He was always so _warm_ , and tonight was no exception. Martin’s large hand slipped from the sheets and into Jon’s long hair, cupping the base of his skull, fingers parting the hair there and tugging slightly. Jon sighed into the other man's mouth.

Jon could feel him smiling against his lips as the larger man shifted to face him fully, and began to use his chest to tip him backwards onto the bed. Once Jon settled into the pillows, Martin’s other hand came around to rest on his bare hip, the one uncovered by the loose (stolen) garments. Jon shivered as Martin pressed insistently into his mouth, the hand at his hip squeezing in tandem.

When they broke apart, they were both gasping for air. Martin looked down at the man he had pressed into the pillows, and for a moment, nothing else existed. It was just him, and those beautiful captivating eyes, exposed collarbone marred with scars that he always kisses when he has the chance, and the granite strands of his hair, curled like roots across the pillows.

He always committed sights like these to memory--if only for his past self, who never thought these moments would be possible. Martin smiled at him, and surged downwards. He kissed his cheek, feather light, then kissed the pockmarks gracing his face, his trajectory headed steadily towards his pulsepoint. When he got to his pulse, he pressed an insistent kiss to the spot. Jon, who was gripping the fabric of Martin’s shirt, squeezed it even tighter and let out a small _’Ah’_. Martin grinned into his skin, moving along the line of his jaw to press kisses there, enjoying the noises of assent that his partner was making.

Suddenly, Martin changed his direction, and opted instead for pressing an open-mouthed kiss to the line of his collarbone where his neck met his shoulder. All the air left Jon’s lungs in a hurry, and he arched his neck and upper body into Martin on instinct, his hands scrabbling desperately for purchase on his back. When that failed, he opted for burying a hand into the hair at the nape of Martin’s neck, and the man let out a noise against his collarbone. The reverberations felt _electrifying_.

But when Martin’s mouth came off his neck with a ‘pop’, the noise brought him back to his senses. He knew there was something more important that they should be doing. Martin started his descent onto Jon again, but the smaller man put a gentle hand to his chest to stop him. Martin looked at him with questioning yet sad eyes. He knew what Jon was going to say.

“Martin,” he breathed out, incredulously, like he couldn’t believe the man in front of him was so good at making him forget his own name.

Martin seemed to sense this exasperation, and he was grinning, his eyes sparkling and full of mirth.

“Yes, Jon?” he feigned innocence, and then quickly dipped his head down towards Jon’s neck once more.

“You fiend! We have to--” Martin latched onto a particularly sensitive spot on his neck and _sucked_ , “hah-ah,” he inhaled sharply, “ww-we have to sleep!” His voice raised an octave on the last word. Martin hummed his dissent.

His mouth disconnected from Jon’s neck, and he looked at Jon, a smirk gracing his soft lips.

“Mm. No.” He finished simply, “I don’t think we do.”

He quickly and insistently continued his attentions to the spot, getting his tongue involved this time. The strangled noises that ripped from Jon’s throat in response definitely betrayed his insistence towards sleep, Martin noted smugly. 

Martin moved up once again, and pressed a light kiss on Jon’s jaw, then surged forward to meet his chapped lips. The other man, hoping it wouldn’t make things _worse_ , reached under Martin’s shirt for the exposed, plush skin. Gripping his hip, he squeezed the ample skin there, and the softness filled his hand in its entirety, spilling out between his fingers in abundance. Martin jolted and let out a noise against Jon’s mouth. Jon pulled away.

“T-time--” Jon huffed out quickly, panting, “--time for bed. I’m being serious, now. As much as I would like to continue, we both need the rest.” His tone was firm, but his eyes were gentle. Looking up at Martin, he could see that the other man had accepted defeat.

Martin let out a huff, “fine,” and he rolled off of Jon. Martin let his arms fall spread eagle across the bed, implicitly inviting the man to lay on him in return. Jon accepted the request by nestling into the heat of the man’s side, as he had done for many months, now. Jon focused on the encompassing heat of the man beside him, listened to the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest, and then he was asleep.

*****

Martin awoke from what felt like the deepest sleep he’s ever had. Jon was sprawled atop him, his arm resting across his soft abdomen, his other arm mashed between them, head nestled into Martin’s shoulder. The covers had been kicked off, (most likely Jon’s doing) but Martin still felt warm. He realized after gazing at Jon, that their surroundings were different than they normally were, and a deep-seated unease filled Martin’s stomach as the grogginess fled his mind. He remembered where he was, and suddenly that unease turned to anxiety.

Sunlight filtered through the thin curtains by their window, and Martin could see from his spot that it had snowed the night before. He noted the thin layer of white snow atop the tree branches, sparkling like opaque gossamer in the sunlight.

He could also hear the faint mumblings of his family members downstairs, both old and young. He knew there were children he hadn’t met yet, children that had never seen him or possibly didn’t even know he existed before this moment. The thought made him feel empty. He shuddered. He could hear their voices lifting upwards in the large space of the living room, echoing across the house. He checked the clock. 8:30.

He wished he could stay in this room for the entirety of this trip, just him, Jon, and his memée on the occasion. But he knew things would never be that easy for him. He placed a large and warm hand to the arm that Jon had wrapped around his midsection, and he rubbed it a couple times to ease him back to consciousness. 

Jon had never explicitly told him, but Martin knew he liked to be woken up like this--there were too many times during their days at the archives where they had to wake up quickly or sleep lightly to avoid getting killed. He knew the instinct all too well--he recognized it within himself. So he knew that roughly jostling the man back to consciousness would incite an instinct--a fear--that he’d only recently developed from his time as Archivist, and Martin knew he deserved a better start to his day. So he always woke him gently.

Jon groaned, and curled further into his neck, tightening his hold on his abdomen and moving his legs to entrap the man like a large and clingy cat. Martin smiled, brushing the hair sticking to Jon’s face away, tucking it behind his ear gently. Jon smiled back contentedly, eyes closed. The smaller man took a deep breath, let go of Martin to stretch, let out a yawn, and settled back into Martin’s pillowy side once more. Martin dipped his head down and spoke softly against Jon’s temple.

“Hey, sleepyhead. I’ve got to go to the toilet. Let go of me,” there was a smile in his voice when he said it. Martin attempted to push the nimble limbs off himself, but he saw the other man smirk and grip tighter.

_“You--”_ Martin gasped, affronted. “I have to go!” He shrieks.

“Mm, no you don’t,” Jon smirks into his shoulder, an edge of possessiveness to his groggy voice. He somehow squeezed tighter.

Martin huffs, petulance in his voice, “Jo-on,” he draws out the syllables.

Jon _giggles_ , “Mah-tin,” he offers as a retort.

The larger man relaxes into Jon’s grip, accepting defeat, and lets out a resigned sigh. 

It was almost 9am before they emerged from their bedroom. Jon’s attempt to cheer Martin up and make him smile before the day had started was a success. Despite his attempt being met with exasperation, at first.

Martin _hadn’t_ been lying to Jon, though. He really _did_ have to go to the toilet. So by the time Jon finally let him go, he was off the bed in seconds, stumbling to the bathroom. Jon had found it quite amusing.

They were hand-in-hand when they emerged from their bedroom. It seemed they were the last to do so, because when their door creaked open, the obnoxious noise echoed, cutting through the din of soft chatter on the first floor.

 _Everyone_ looked up at them, almost all at once. It was kind of _creepy_. Martin froze to the spot, blushing. Jon squeezed his hand.

Louis was the first to break the tension of their creepy and silent staring. Martin would be thankful, but he knew that whatever the man-child was about to say would make him incredibly annoyed.

“It’s about time you two lovebirds showed up, what in the blazes were you two even doing? We could hear laughin n’ shit from out here. Ooh! I bet it was some weird sex thing.” He snorted, slapping his leg, and then took a smug sip from his coffee. Martin could see his uncles, Hugo and Arthur, holding down their laughter, and his face _burned_. Jon shifted uncomfortably on his feet.

Almost immediately, Louis’ mother Suzanne, Martin’s aunt, gave him an affronted and scolding look, while she said something about there being ‘children around.’ And then just like that, conversation returned to normal. Martin looked down at his family members from their balcony/hallway on the second floor, in total _shock_. What the fuck had just happened? Martin’s head was spinning, it felt something like whiplash.

He turned to Jon, and the man’s face was red all the way down to his neck, he was shifting on his feet, and aggressively worrying the edges of his shirt between his fingers--he looked so _embarrassed_ and _uncomfortable_. Martin knew he would be too if he was sex-averse and just had some 19 year old man-baby casually speculate about his sex-life in front of people he’s barely even _met_.

If Martin was embarrassed, the flames of shame must be burning the other man _alive_ by this point. Martin squeezed his hand protectively. He was absolutely _livid_ , and it was barely 9am. 

*****

Vivi offered to cook them some breakfast, and Jon protested at first, before he realized that--just like Martin--he couldn’t out-stubborn Vivi. So that’s why they were both currently seated at the bar-style counter, in mismatched, retro-looking stools that look like they came straight out of a flea market from the 80’s. Vivi was making small chatter with them while she cooked their breakfast-- fried eggs and sausage.

Someone came up behind Martin to clap him on the back--it startled him. He whipped his head around to look up at the culprit, and was met with uncle Léo’s amiable smile. Léo was a tall man, with amber brown skin almost matching Vivi’s and his own. He had cool eyes, dark hair, a square jaw, and a thin frame. He was both tall but lithe, and he gave off the impression of a gentle giant--Martin is starting to remember these impressions of his family, from the small place in his mind which he usually kept them locked away. He smiles back at the tall man.

Martin then realizes that Léo has both of his hands occupied, one with Martin’s shoulder and the other with a smaller, delicate hand, attached to a shorter figure hiding behind his leg. He notices this, but looks up at Léo again expectantly.

“I never got to talk to you last night,” Léo smiles, his eyes bright, “My, how you’ve grown; you look so handsome now, Martin!”

Martin blushes and smiles, his heart filling with euphoria.

Léo squeezes his shoulder, “I also wanted to introduce you to someone special--someone you haven’t had the chance to meet yet.” Léo looks down at his leg--the leg that a small form appears to be hiding behind.

The larger man tugs gently at the pudgy hand in his grasp. The small form peaks from behind the safety of his leg reluctantly, the child’s head coming into view.

“This is Gabriel,” Léo smiles down at the boy in a subtle form of encouragement. The child comes into full view, now, holding his arms tightly to himself and looking down at the floor.

Martin finds his lips turning into a soft smile at the display of feeble shyness from the child. The boy’s father nudges him with his leg. Green eyes meet gray.

“Why hello Gabriel! Can I call you Gabe?” Martin smiles openly and warmly at the boy, his voice light. The kid’s eyes dart away shyly.

“Yes,” he says quietly.

“Great! How old are you, Gabe?” Martin leans down slightly towards the boy. Gabe stares at his own shifting feet.

“I’m six, Mr. Martin!” he says, with unexpected energy. At the misused honorific, Martin’s grin widened in endearment.

“Gabriel,” Léo interjects, “didn’t you say you wanted to ask Martin something?”

“Oh?” Martin raises his brows.

“I don’t wannuh,” the child pouts, “‘is embarrassin’,”

“Aw, Gabe. It’s okay, you can ask me anything! What is it?”

“Well, y-you see,” the child visibly swallowed, and met Martin’s eyes once again, “do you think that--” he fumbled shyly, “How do you date other boys? Isn’t that banned or somethin?!” He let all his air out in a rush, and tension sapped from his little body. His look turned expectant within a moment. Martin was absolutely frozen to the spot for the second time this morning.

He looked to Léo, and the man was looking down at his kid with soft shock written across his face. Martin could see within his eyes that his shock was less about the nature of his question, but rather for his boldness. Martin could feel a couple pairs of eyes on them from across the room as he cleared his throat to speak.

“Of course boys can date other boys! It’s easy, you just--” Martin took Jon’s hand suddenly, cradling it gently in his two larger palms, and gave a gentle kiss to his knuckle. “--you just fall in love, like anybody else--like your mom and dad did.” He met Gabe’s eyes, and gave the child another warm smile. The younger boy was staring up at Martin, eyes sparkling, like he’d just discovered that Santa was real.

“S-so you--so you mean it’s _not_ banned?” Gabe said softly, with quiet amazement.

Martin laughed breathily, “No--No of course not, Gabe. You could be like me and Jon someday, if you like.” The child broke from Martin’s gaze to stare off in the distance with a far-off look.

“Cool….” and just like that, the child was running off.

His father called out to him, “What do you say to your cousin, Gabriel?” Gabe stopped in his tracks, halfway down the hall already. Turning around, he yelled a quick, “thank you!” and scurried off.

“He’s always been curious about how things work. Sorry if that was a bit invasive--”

“No, not at all, Léo. I’m happy to talk to him,” Martin met the other man’s eyes meaningfully. He could tell that Léo understood how important this was.  
More pressing, now, was that Martin could still feel a different type of invasiveness--an unwelcome one--skittering across his skin. He turned to look over at the living area from across the open space, and saw a couple pairs of eyes trained on him and Jon. 3 pairs, to be exact. 

Suzanne was looking at him with open horror and chagrin, her morning cup and paper abandoned in favor of gawking. The other pair belonged to Angela, who side eyed her brother carefully, with cold eyes--her gaze like a glowing warning sign. Hugo was also looking at them both, probably entertained at Martin’s display of affection--his eyebrows quirked into something amused, and his mouth was a smirk, twisted in slight mockery.

“You _know_ you shouldn’t be encouraging that _lifestyle_ , M***--” she stops herself suddenly, “M-Martin, It’s only going to get that child _hurt_. And it’ll be _your_ fault for putting those ideas in his head.” Suzanne snapped from her chair across the room, pointing a finger at him accusingly. She seemed as if she’d been holding that down for the past five minutes. There was a good chance she had been.

Martin closed his eyes, and took a steadying breath. He spoke loudly, “I’m not the one who would be responsible for hurting him,” he paused, and squeezed Jon’s hand in his grip, “It’s people like _you_ he’ll need to watch out for.” Martin met her eyes in that moment, narrowing them in challenge.

His heart was hammering thunderously, he could hear it in his ears, he could _feel_ everyone looking at him. The attention made his face burn. But he _wouldn’t_ back down.

Suzanne tore her gaze away from Martin and huffed, burying her face back into the morning paper. Léo stood next to him awkwardly, shifting on his feet--uncomfortable with the thick tension in the room. Blessedly, Vivi spoke up,

“I have some extra pieces of sausage over here, if anyone wants any!” she held up the pan, smiling nervously.

Unfortunately, Louis didn’t miss a beat, “I bet Martin’s got it covered,” the bastard said loudly, and almost innocently. Martin knew he was mocking him--he just didn’t have the energy left for any other bullshit at the moment. 

Even more unfortunate, is that boy had found a way to get under Martin’s skin, and he’d already started _burrowing_. There was no doubt: it was going to be a long week.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finally gave y'all the fluff you deserved, but at what cost.... So Louis, huh....that kid was inspired by the whiny ultra-conservative teenager from Knives Out--just thought that would give some of you enjoyment :)
> 
> Next week, the boys join the entire clan in a Blackwood Family Tradition™ !!!! yay! that's definitely going to go smoothly :)  
> Expect the next update on Saturday, 1/30


	7. An Exploration Into Emptiness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin and Jon are whisked away for a traditional Blackwood family adventure! What could possibly go wrong?
> 
> Meanwhile, Vivi processes, Margot speaks up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no beta this week we kayak like tim 
> 
> NOTE: This chapter, like many of the others, is heavy. This one especially deals in themes of mortality from the perspective of a family member about to suffer a loss. 
> 
> In other words, this one was really fucking hard to write, but it was equally cathartic, given my experiences surrounding death in my life. So I hope you all enjoy it, but I also dearly hope that you all process it when you are ready, especially if grief is a familiar and sensitive subject. 
> 
> With that in mind...
> 
> **TRIGGER WARNINGS**  
>  \- Discussions of mortality and death of a family member   
> \- Homophobia

“She said _what_?” Louis squawked indignantly. 

“All of us?” Margot groaned, her head lolling back into the chair melodramatically. 

“Yes! That’s right-- _all_ of us,” Vivi cheerily announces from the second floor hall balcony, her voice had a sharp commanding edge that left little room for protest.

“Memée said something about how it’s--,” Vivi pauses to make air quotes, and puffs out her chest, “-- _’probably my last goddamn Christmas, so if you all don’t get a tree as a family like I ask, then so help me god_ \--’” Vivi’s chest deflates and her voice returns to normal, “you get the jist,” she smiles sweetly, an edge of warning in the creases of her face. 

Martin laughed a little from the impression, it wasn’t exactly far off from how he remembered his grandmaman before she got sick. He smiled up at her, she winked back at him. 

“Alright, Blackwood’s!” Arthur’s voice boomed throughout the living area. The man stood by the large stone fireplace, his chest puffed out like a turkey in heat, and his spine ramrod straight. 

He was an old-fashioned man, to say the very least, and his style of leadership was either just short of militaristic at worst, and ‘demanding corporate boss’ at best. Martin rolled his eyes at the display. 

“You all know the drill--at least, most of you--” he glances at his youngest, Margot, “so get some warm clothes and big boots on: we’re getting ourselves a tree,” he grins like he just made an inspiring speech, and his eyes were expectant, waiting for his command to take hold. The family in the room looked at him for a moment, and slowly shuffled out at their own pace--not exactly the picture of rousing reactionary movements the man expected. 

It was only around 10:30 when Vivi delivered news of memée’s assignment, and up until then, Jon and Martin had been loafing on the large, well-loved leather sofa next to Léo and Margot. The teen kept to herself, only looking up from her book briefly to gaze around the room and take in a moment of conversation before diving back in. She hadn’t seemed interested in introducing herself to either Jon or Martin, and mostly divulged in things she was familiar with. Martin came to the conclusion that she was mostly neutral, if not ignorant, to her surroundings, only choosing to engage when it interested her. 

Léo had made friendly discussion with them both, engaged them on their experiences in the archives, and what living in Scotland for the past year has been like. He also spent some of that conversation catching up with Martin. The man gave off a warm energy that Martin enjoyed, like a cold traveler cozying up to the fire.   
They were both walking towards their room, now. They made it to the staircase full of pictures--of moments-- from Martin’s life that he’d rather forget, and Jon looked determinedly forward. His eyes were trained on the stairs ahead of him and _not_ anywhere near the pictures on the wall. 

Martin saw the other man’s attempts at limiting his exposure to the images, and smiled widely, even if Jon was too focused on looking forward to see his loving gaze. Martin was also surprised by the general lack of questioning from his partner--usually Jon would be plenty curious about the day’s events, but he mostly found him quietly tagging along at his side. 

When they were safely enclosed in their room, away from prying ears, Jon looked at him with a questioning gaze. This gaze was somewhat of a new development, to Martin’s knowledge. Before, at the archives, whenever Jon wanted to know something, he simply asked, or pried, or researched and investigated his heart out. But he found more often that the other man asked questions with his gaze rather than his words, almost as if he distrusted them. Martin had adapted to spotting that small spark of curiosity in Jon’s eye when it appeared, whether he was showing it intentionally or not. 

“Okay--so,” Martin inhaled deeply, “when I was growing up, we always went to the local Christmas tree farm as a family and trekked through the snowy fields together to find a tree. But it’s been _years_ since we did it last-- and that was before I came out-- and, just, with the way this day has been going so far I’m--”   
Martin averts his gaze from his partner and it trains it on a particularly fascinating stain on the carpet, his hands are fluttering like panicked spiders, moving about with senseless manic energy. 

“I’m so afraid it’s going to turn out like before.” he admitted quietly. 

“Before?” Jon said softly, in question. 

“Y-yeah, it’s--” Martin turned his head towards the door when he heard the telltale loud ruckus of a large family getting ready for an outing. Martin sighed again, “I’ll tell you later. Now get some warm clothing on, so we’re not last--again.” 

Jon and Martin are last, again. Much to the larger man’s chagrin, he realized that Jon hadn’t ever dressed up for wintry activities like _trekking through the fields to get a christmas tree_ , which left the smaller man completely in the dark as to _how_ to dress in layers properly. In other words, Martin had to help him dress, and that certainly didn’t help their current streak of tardiness. When they both waddle down the stairs, waterproof material swishing, everybody is waiting for them, unimpressed. 

Martin knew they all seemed to foster a similar idea as to _what_ exactly held them up, but he wasn’t about to comment on it, or correct their notions. The former out of embarrassment, the latter out of tenacity. 

Louis, in particular, seemed to derive a cruel sense of joy from embarrassing Martin and Jon in front of his entire family. He was eyeing them both now, gaze sharp with sarcasm and something else fiery, almost like mockery, while fixing the collar of his large coat. He also seemed to derive joy from stoking the flames of tension and dirison amongst his family members, from what Martin had gathered. The thicker the smoke of tension had filled the air, the more amused and entertained the smug bastard seemed to get. 

Martin pointedly ignored him in favor of putting his boots on, and fixing a beanie to his head. When he looked over at his partner, the man currently seemed to be struggling with his mittens. He’d successfully managed to wrangle one pair, but was currently struggling with the elusive second pair, as one hand being gloved hindered his dexterity. Martin placed his bare hands around Jon’s gloved one gently, looking him kindly in the eye--ever patient. Jon’s tense figure seemed to relax again. 

“Here, let me.” Martin took the problematic mitten from Jon, and carefully slipped it onto his scarred hands. 

“Woah there-- you’ve got some rough-lookin’ hands there, Jonny--” Martin had no idea that Hugo had been watching Jon until his voice came from directly beside them. 

Jon flinched at the sudden noise, then huffed petulantly, “I--It’s _Jon_ , and--” 

“-- _especially_ for someone with just an archiving job, what kind of things were you even _doing_ to get a burn like that?--” Hugo rubbed his chin innocently, leaning in-between them obnoxiously, and observing the half-covered hand. There was almost a predatory spark to the way his eyes observed Jon, like a lion before honing in on its dinner, or, coincidentally, a prosecuting lawyer scraping away at information from the defendant. 

“--That's enough. Thank you, Hugo.” Martin’s voice was strained in warning, and he met Hugo’s eyes meaningfully when the other man turned away from the source of his curiosity. Martin quickly and effectively tugged the mittens on the rest of the way, ending the discussion. 

Hugo raised both his hands in defense, “Woah there, didn’t know it was a touchy subject. Sorry.” He didn’t sound very apologetic. 

“Are you two _finally_ ready to go?” Angela called from the door, face obscured from behind the bodies of the multiple other family members between them. 

“Yep!” Martin called back, voice strained. He glanced at Jon, who gazed at his gloved hands with a faraway stare. Martin put his hand on the small of his back, in an attempt to ground him. Jon relaxed a bit under his touch, but his eyes never left from his hands. 

The whole family began to shuffle out, their movements a symphony of swishing fabric. Their boots cause the floorboards to creak and groan under duress, a steady pounding that tests the old wood. 

Arthur leads them all into a garage, where an old pickup truck rests, lying in wait for what seems like this very purpose. The old thing looks worn and well-loved, and when Arthur starts it up, it sounds as such. Him and Suzanne get in the two front seats, and he sticks his head out of the driver’s side window to order Louis around, telling him to open the barn doors, and unlatch the tailgate from the bed of the truck. 

When the tailgate creaks to a downwards position parallel to the ground, Louis sardonically motions for the rest of the family to embark into the truck bed. Tom, who Martin had learned was Angela’s plain-looking fiancé, had climbed into the truck first. Then he extended a hand down to Angela, who looked unphased by the show of chivalry, and muttered a ‘thank you’ that was lost below the racket of the engine. The rest of the family climbed in, save for Léo and Gabriel, the latter being too young to come, and the former having to take care of Gabe and memée while the rest were absent. 

The metal of the truck bed was cold against their skin, and Martin could feel Jon shivering through his clothing, despite the layers they’d spent so much time putting on. Jon had picked up knitting a while back, and for his birthday, Jon had knit Martin a pastel peach-colored scarf. Martin has refused to part with it since. It’s what he wore now, and he noticed Jon's uncovered neck, revealing a seam in between the jacket where the harsh winds cut through the fabric directly to his skin.

Reluctantly, the larger man carefully removed the scarf from where it rested atop his shoulders, and draped it around the smaller man, who tensed at the touch on instinct until he registered _who_ was touching him. He let Martin wrap the scarf around his neck, tucking the fabric into the gaps of the coat at his neck, insulating his heat. 

When Martin was finished, Jon sighed into the fabric and nuzzled his nose deeper into the softness. The sight warmed him at his core, replacing the warmth that Martin lost from the lent scarf. He allowed his face to paint itself into a fond picture, his eyes glistening, and a subtle quirk to his lips. He placed a large and warm arm around Jon, pulling him into his side, into his naturally warm abdomen.

Martin thanked his lucky stars that Suzanne wasn’t there to gawk at their open affection. However, unfortunately for Martin, Angela was here. She looked at him coldly. Her gaze felt like how a scientist regards a subject they’re dissecting. It had a calculating coldness, something that suggested a chilling detachment, but also something probing and prodding at him, something invasive. Like a scalpel painting a crimson stroke down his body in its wake, with full intent at revealing what's behind his protective barriers. 

Instead of allowing her the satisfaction of his discomfort, he chose to snuggle closer to Jon, placing his head on atop Jon’s, and forcing his eyes shut.   
Nobody else in the truck with them was talking. One could blame it on the loud and decrepit engine that sputtered and wheezed more than an engine should, but people who like each other even a little bit beyond obligation tend to try harder than this. Jon and Martin’s silence was a feigned peace, they pretended not to acknowledge the heaviness in the air. 

While Louis and Margot feigned ignorance, as if their parents hadn’t regaled them endlessly about cousin Martin’s “ridiculous outburst,” from six years ago (and they desperately tried to pretend that was the reason none of them wanted to talk). Vivi was the only one who seemed to be successfully ignoring the tension in the air, as she was gazing at the snowy fields, and the trees decorated with a gentle layer of snow, shoulders lax. Tom, on the other hand, was practically emanating anxiety. The man could barely stand the heady silence. 

So he chose to fill it up. 

“Sooo-- Jon, Martin, I don’t believe I’ve yet had the chance to talk to you both,” 

Tom fidgets from the awkwardness and laden tension evident in the atmosphere. 

Martin regards him warily, and Jon looks up from where his head had been buried in the crook of Martin’s neck, shooting the other man a look of tentative curiosity. 

“What did you want to know,” Jon speaks up, but his voice still sounded soft. He looked caught off-guard by Jon’s willingness to speak. Maybe Tom hadn’t been the only one cracking under the pressure of silence. 

“Well--uh, I heard that you worked an archiving job in London? That must’ve been cool.” 

“Yeah its--” Jon draws in a breath, voice softening when he says, “--it’s how we met.” 

Jon clears his throat. “I was Head Archivist, and he was my assistant--one of them, anyways,--” 

“Say, _Jon_. Isn’t it a bit _unproffessional_ to be dating someone you’re supposed to be supervising?” Angela sneered at him, staring down the smaller man with a challenging gaze. 

Jon met her gaze with similar tenacity. Where her eyes were icy and cruel, Jon’s were fierce and protective. His heart was beating out of his chest, he hadn’t felt this alive in awhile. He knew his green eye was glowing, he could practically _feel_ it. 

Jon’s voice was low and deadly, “ I don’t remember _asking_ \--” 

Martin’s hand gripped Jon’s arm suddenly and tightly, like a viper clutching its prey. 

“I don’t recall needing to justify my whole life to _you_ , Angela. Leave him out of this.” 

“Just wanted to make sure my _brother’s_ boyfriend is in it for the _right reasons_.” 

Martin was livid, now. His heart played a symphony in his chest, and sweat beaded down his back. It felt as if there was a vice wrapped around his heart, and there was a deep part of him that desperately insisted he was wrong, that he should just drop it. He ignored it--he wouldn’t back down, not if it was for Jon. 

The part of his heart that he always kept safely guarded from the world was quickly boiling over, the pressure escaping through the cracks in the fortress. This time, he didn’t bother reinforcing the walls, instead, he let them fall. 

“What the _fuck_ do you care, Angela.” He spat through grinding teeth. He felt the walls shatter. His hands trembled. 

There was silence, even the engine noise had stopped. She stared at him in wide eyed shock, her mouth forming a small and terse “o” with her lips. She looked as if Martin had punched her directly in the solar plexus, subsequently stealing all the words from her breath.

“Someone has to! Meanwhile, _you_ certainly didn’t seem to care about _ruining_ \--” 

“--I’ve had _enough_.” Vivi boomed. Her voice was steady, but strong, and carried over their argument easily--and then some.

She whipped her head towards Angela, her eyes narrowing--”you will keep your _shit together_ , and you will refrain from your _bullshit_ today. This is probably my mother’s _last goddamn Christmas_ , and if you brats ruin it, so help me, you’ll have more than just Martin’s new pronouns to whine about. Understand?” Vivi pointed an accusatory finger, waving it like a weapon, towards Angela’s face. Her gaze was like daggers, aimed directly at his sister. Martin would not want to be on the receiving end of that stare. 

“Now, it looks like we’re here.” Vivi stood up in the bed of the parked truck. Suzanne and Arthur left their front seats just in time for Vivi to stomp both of her feet and clear her throat. She positively towered over them all, looking far larger than her stature would normally allow. 

“If anyone has any other snide remarks they’d like to make about Martin and his lovely partner, now would be the time to make them. Because if I hear any more stupid, bigoted _bullshit_ while I’m here, you’re all going to get a little _surprise_ in your Christmas dinner.” 

She unclasps the hatch to the tailgate, and it swings decisively downwards, coming to face parallel alongside the ground with a slam. 

“Now get out.” 

***

The fields were quiet, the wind swept over the snow covered hills and pushed against the struggling family, who’d just ventured that way for any balsam tree that resembled a traditional fir. They’d been trekking through the snow for about 30 minutes, and the biting wind was truly starting to cut through their layers upon layers of clothing. 

When Martin was a child, it usually only took them 15 minutes to spot a suitable tree in the distance, and then another 25 more to reach it and chop it down. This time was obviously different, and Vivi had commented that the locals began poaching trees from this spot more and more, because the ones from tree farms were exorbitantly priced. Which meant that, in a town of a couple hundred, and where there were only a few good trees in one year, shortages were bound to happen.

“Why don’t we just-- I don’t know-- give up? Let's just buy one from a farm and _lie_ that we chopped it ourselves. The old geriatric won’t know a thing--”

“Absolutely not. We’re doing this, Louis. And do not talk about my mother like that ever again.” Vivi’s voice was determined and resolved. Martin knew that voice more than anyone--hell, he recognized it in himself. It was stubborn and almost foolhardy. It’s why him and Vivi always got on. 

Vivi currently leads the family, aggressively pushing through the snow. The speed at which she did so was impressive, considering its untamed height and her small stature. Everyone else, however, was not faring as well as Vivi. Martin could barely feel his extremities-- the wind had sliced through the holes in his coat and cut him down to the bone. And while he wasn’t touching the man, he could tell that Jon was shaking, the shudders wracking through his small frame like an earthquake to an unsteady building. 

Arthur and Suzanne looked positively miserable, but they hadn’t said a word about it-- or anything else, frankly. Suzanne’s feet dragged through the snow in a way that was so pronounced her movements became stilted, and she tripped often. She is currently gripping her fur-lined hood in a futile attempt at staving away the cold, and preserving warmth from the biting wind blowing off the ocean a couple towns over. She’s stumbling in practically every step, and each stumble breaks their silent streak with a colorful use of language on her part. 

Arthur wasn’t doing any better, but to the average person, he seemed to be taking it in stride. His fists were clenched in his cotton gloves, and there was a hard line of tension in his brow, his lips were pulled down bitterly, as if the wind itself had put a bad taste in his mouth.

Louis seemed to be dramatically stumbling through the snow next to his father, begging for attention. He blew on his hands for warmth in the loudest manner possible, frequently pausing to complain about anything he could think of. Angela and Tom were at the back of the group, mostly obscured from view.

Margot had gone completely quiet, which wasn’t necessarily out-of-line for her. But her incessant need to take in her surroundings and catalogue them meant that her head facing down towards the snow, face obscured by her hood and shoulders pulled up in tension, was well indicative of her mood. She had no idea why these people were acting the way that they were, and she was so _tired_ at all the japes and digs at each other already. It was cold, nobody was talking, and she could barely keep up with her nearly-manic aunt leading the pack. 

Margot, to put it lightly, had _had it_. She barely remembered (or understood) this tradition that everyone else seemed to know so much about, and frankly, at this point, she didn’t care. 

To put the icing on the extremely frigid ice-cream cake, nobody had said a word since Vivi’s proclamations at the truck, now 30 minutes ago. After Tom’s failed attempt at brevity, he’d realized just as Jon had, that there was something more to the air between these people. 

After a particularly shittily-timed step, Margot lost her footing and fell directly on her face, her body engulfing itself into the deep snow. She violently thrashed around in the vast whiteness for a moment, struggling to get leverage in its softness. When she righted herself, the fresh snow stuck to her hat and scarf and pants in large clumps that appeared caked onto the fabric. Her hands were buried in the snow up to her forearms. Martin caught a glimpse of the look in her eyes when she looked up, and they had a spark in them like they could’ve melted the snow currently caked onto her. 

Nobody but Martin had heard her fall, or, at least, that’s his impression, because not even her parents turned to look back at her--they simply kept walking. Vivi pressed on determinedly ahead of them all. 

At his stalled footsteps, Jon bumped into Martin’s arm, urging him on. Martin motioned with a nod towards the fallen teen. Jon stayed planted in the spot he stopped in, not bothering to move if he didn’t have to. The rest of the family brushed past him, and the smaller man stood in shock over their sheer ignorance--or was it carelessness? Jon couldn’t tell. Martin had just about reached the girl when she spoke, quiet but heavy. 

“Stop.” 

Nobody but Martin had heard her. They all kept walking, slowly drawing away from them both. The larger man held up both his hands, palms facing out, floundering over what to do. 

“Everybody, hold on,” she said again, slightly firmer this time. Not a single head turned their way. Martin finally extended a hand to her to help her up. 

She slapped his hand away violently, “I said _stop_!” 

They all followed her command with quite ease. Her parents turned to look at her, they looked tired and ready to scold her in equal measure. 

“ _Margot_ \--” Arthur warned. 

“No. Do not _’Margot’_ at me. We have been walking in the _freezing cold_ for almost forty minutes! You all suck at talking, and everybody seems _mad_ at each other already! I’m _done_ ,” she huffed out a breath, “I’m going back to the car.” She said firmly. 

“Margot-- young lady, you aren’t going back _anywhere_. We have to find a tree--” 

“Why.” 

“Pardon me?” Arthur sounded genuinely surprised. 

“I said--” Margot got up, lifting herself out of the snow and brushing off her clothes, “ _why_.” 

“B-because--” Arthur floundered, looking around with his eyes bulging out of his head. 

“--Do you know what it means when someone is dead, Margot?” 

Vivi’s voice was solemn, and carried itself on the wind, reaching Margot in an eerie amount of strength for their distance apart. The older, smaller woman still faced away from Margot, presumably looking at the fields ahead. 

“What? Of _course_ I know--,” Margot protested, the line in her mouth suggested confusion. 

“It means they’re never coming back. Everything that’s happened to them is over: in the past. Wrapped up in a neat little package that will never be opened again.” Vivi turned around now, she looked at Margot from some few feet away, but the look in her eyes couldn’t be missed for miles. They were the eyes of a grieving woman. 

“I’m-- I’m just trying to make the ribbon that ties the box closed look nice--that’s all.” Her words were soft, but they carried nonetheless.

The older woman began walking towards the teen, who shrunk back with every step that Vivi took. When Vivi came to face her, she met her eyes--they were the same powerful look from moments ago, their intensity was unbearable to look at head-on, like the sun. 

“We will go home, and you will look her in the eyes, Margot. In them, you will see exactly why I wanted this so badly,” Vivi pauses, giving her that searing look, filled with brimming emotion, “you will look your grandmother in the eyes, and you will tell her that we couldn’t chop a Christmas tree for her this year.” 

“V-Vivi, Isn’t that a little--” 

“-- _Harsh?_ Yes, Martin. It is.” She turned her intense gaze on Martin, and it burned through him, down to his core. He shuddered. 

“Life is harsh, she’ll learn it now or later.” She looked away, now, gazing at the wind sweeping the snow over the rolling fields.

Arthur coughed uncomfortably, “--Alright. Let’s go buy a tree, then.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God, this chapter felt unbelievably good to write. I simply can't describe it. Part of the reason I wrote this fic was to explore my unique perceptions of death and mortality. I'm glad I finally got to this point. I hope some of you felt seen or understood by Vivi- know that you aren't alone. 
> 
> Next chapter is even more of a doozy, if you can believe it. 
> 
> So much so, in fact, that I will not be posting next week, as I need to take some more time to write chapter 8 for emotional reasons. Believe me, though. I will be posting it. It's taking a long time because the subject matter hits extremely close to home, and crafting it has been very hard and slow-going. Thank y'all for understanding! 
> 
> Anyways, with that said, thank you all for reading! **Next chapter will be up on the 12th of February.**
> 
> Hang tight in the meantime!


	8. A Trip Down Memory Lane

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Martin confronts his past, and comes to a monumental realization.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi ! Long time no-see :) 
> 
> This chapter, as promised, is a goddamn Trip. There's a reason why I needed an extra two weeks to write this....
> 
> Next update, believe it or not, is going to be just as intense, if not more! Get ready, because that chapter is Dense, and a Lot is going to happen. So much, in fact, that I had to split what I had planned for it into two separate chapters.. Which is why you'll notice that there will be 11 chapters in total, at the very least. 
> 
> No beta this week, we die like kings. I'm not sure how to feel about certain sections of this chapter but my eyes feel like they'll turn into little raisins if I look at it any more so, guess this is what you guys get :,)) I hope you guys like it! 
> 
> **TRIGGER WARNINGS  
>  \- arguments /relationship conflict  
> \- deliberate dead-naming  
> \- brief mentions of past homophobia/transphobia  
> \- exploration of past emotional abuse  
> \- strong/vulgar language  
> \- briefest mention of mortality**

It had been a couple days since the entire family braved the cold and ventured out to find a balsam for festivities. Now, it was December 23rd, the Eve before Christmas Eve. The past couple of days had been fraught with the very same thick blanket of tension that had been present since they arrived.

Martin recalls decorating the tree, how Arthur and Hugo hadn’t contributed their help whatsoever. Instead they opted to watch from the couch, making snarky comments in-between hearty gulps of craft beer. The people who did participate in decorating had made it a soulless affair, silently placing fragile adornments along the spiky limbs. 

Martin remembered the gathering from when he was younger. Usually, his memée would orchestrate the family function, delegate roles, and crack jokes. It seemed like the rest of his family had forgotten how to do these things entirely. Martin watched them attempt to carry through with the festivities, as if ambling soullessly to the tune of a lost song. 

Tom had since learned that starting conversation was difficult, and that anything and _everything_ could be a nonstarter. Naturally, he’d since given up, and relegated himself to staring at his own reflection in a glass of wine. Memée, in her sick state, had spent that time napping on the couch. Martin usually would’ve seen her bossing the men around to get off their asses and decorate with their children and wives. But instead, she slept softly and silently on the worn leather sofa, with small creases under her eyes in her otherwise peaceful visage. She had attempted to get the men from their spots on the couch--and had briefly succeeded--until sleepiness overtook her. 

A boulder had settled in Martin’s stomach at the stark changes in his grandmother. The pictures and memories in his head, when compared with the person he saw before him, had clashed in a way that shook him deeply. The dissonance was clear, and the implications of her significantly smaller body and exhausted demeanor regularly reminded Martin of the ticking clock on the wall. 

The presence of his younger cousin, Gabriel, had slightly brightened their time together as a family. His natural curiosity allowed Martin to answer questions good-naturedly while adorning tinsel upon the tree. For a moment, the small child allowed him a distraction from the tension laden in the air. When the time came to place the star on the top of the tree, Martin had hoisted the small boy atop his shoulders, gripping the kid by the calves to keep him steady. His small little hands had adjusted the sparkly metal star to its rightful place atop the crest of the tree, giggling all the while. Jon had openly stared at the bright grin that had overtaken Martin’s face, enjoying the sight of him with a happy child on his shoulders. The happy scene felt out of place with the tentative silence that overtook the other adults in the room. 

It carried on this way for many days. Their first dinner had been long-suffering and fraught with tension. It was the start of a pattern that Jon had soon become painfully familiar with. He vividly remembers their first dinner-- Vivi had tried to strike up a conversation with him and Martin. 

Since there was nobody else talking to each other, the only sound filling the room was the scrape of forks against porcelain. When Vivi asked them a conversation starter, the whole table could hear her, and by proxy, the whole table paid attention when they spoke next. 

“So--Jon, Martin. Why did you decide to move to Scotland? What drew you there?” 

Martin felt as though a spotlight had been trained directly on him. His face etched with nerves under the heat of the blinding attention. 

“More like--’ _who_ pushed him away from _here_ ,’” Angela mumbled to Suzanne, throwing the backhanded jab just loud enough for the larger man across from her to hear it clearly. 

“What was that, Angela?” Martin’s voice had taken on a saccharine, cavity-inducing sweetness. It was a pleasantness so overpowering that it almost hurt-- a tone he only picked up before getting into a heated tiff. Jon recalled it clearly from their archival days. He was surprised at the low edge of warning that tinged Martin’s words into something that sounded borderline threatening. Martin's gray eyes had narrowed to sharp silver points, aimed directly at his sister in a show of confrontation that Jon had only recently learned was a side Martin even _possessed_. 

Léo, ever the peacekeeper, decided to step in after a subtle elbow-jab from his wife. He quickly changed the subject to asking Jon loudly about the local Scottish tourist scene, and whether they had gone exploring the local tourist spots around their home. Jon answered hesitantly, with Margot and Gabriel expressing some interest in the Highlands’ scenery and abundance of cute cows. He eyed his partner through his explanation, distractedly promising to show Gabriel the Highland’s someday. 

***

At present, the entire family adorned the house with Christmas decorations--paper snowflakes, mistletoe, nativity scenes, and various sparkly materials. Martin was sitting demurely on the couch, watching the rest of the family hustle past with various sparkling decorations spilling from their overflowing arms. Jon sat on the floor in front of the couch while Gabriel, who sat nestled next to Martin, carefully braided his hair. 

The child was surprisingly careful when brushing the days-old knots from the man’s salt and pepper hair. Gabriel chided Jon for his messy locks, in the naive, adorable way that children do when caring for the adults most special to them. Martin laughed at the irony of a _child_ telling Jon to take better care of himself. 

“Don’t bother, Gabe. I’ve been trying to get him to take better care of his body for years, but he won’t listen! Not even from the man he loves the most. Can you believe that?” 

“Wait, the most--?” Jon supplies coyly, the smirk painting his face visible even from where Martin was sitting. 

“Yes. Don’t play coy with me, Jonathan Sims.” Martin chides gently, a smile brimming his lips. 

“Ooo somebody’s in trouble!” Gabriel giggled conspiratorially.

The child gently pleated the soft strands of Jon’s hair. The careful, predictable strokes of small hands twisting and smoothing Jon’s hair was like a lullaby for Martin. Entranced, he completely forgot about the rest of the family moving about the house with a manic and slightly frustrated aura, their voices had faded away almost completely. That is, until he heard someone calling his name. 

“Oi--Martin!” Hugo snapped from across the room, “Stop making mushy eyes at your boyfriend. Get over here and help us!” 

The demand, the snappy tone that utterly lacked respect for the recipient. The expected subservience and deference. It all sent him back to a time he’d rather forget. The frigid cold of his childhood seemed to crawl its way back into Martin’s heart, curling by the hearth of a fire that hadn’t been properly kindled in days. His fingers felt cold, and his heart rattled in his chest as time slowed down, and he let the fog enter his mind. 

****

_Yelling. There was always so much goddamn yelling. It was all he’s ever known, like an old acquaintance. An acquaintance that made Martin feel sick and dizzy, that simultaneously filled his stomach with butterflies and searing heat. The flames of that heat had always licked its way up his body, slowly consuming him._

_Sometimes, when that awful shouting was aimed in his direction, he felt like it could instantly swallow him whole. And right now, after years of dealing with turmoil, he couldn’t fucking take it anymore. He’d had to eat in the bathroom stall again today to avoid getting called a slur by his sneering teenage peers, but he would never complain or speak up about this, of course--he and his problems superseded the reach of his family, not that they would take him seriously, anyways._

_That had usually been the case throughout his childhood. He felt like a snake that had yet to shed its skin-- surrounded in a false version of himself, the old life suffocating the one currently trying to wrestle free. His problems never reached them because they didn’t see him for the person that he was, and by extension, he never bothered to enlighten them. The loneliness of never being truly seen by those closest to him was suffocating, like the feeling of his unshed skin cloying to the opening of his mouth and nose._

_It was the first time he felt persisting loneliness at the edges of his fingertips. After all, oxygen deprivation causes the furthest extremities to lose their warmth before anything else. At some point, the loneliness of his skin was going to suffocate him entirely so he wouldn’t feel anything at all. That is, if he didn’t escape it in time--escape the feelings of frustration and deference and timidity, combined with his repressed identity. The strength and overpowering nature of his old life threatened to extinguish the new one trying desperately to break free, to take shape._

_Angie was causing problems, as she so often did in the years following Mum’s diagnosis. Something had snapped within her--something deep and visceral--when Mum got sick. She hadn’t been the same since they were ten. Those calm and cool eyes had taken on a different, more intense level of frigidity that paralyzed Martin down to his core. He no longer saw his sister when he looked her in the eye._

_Instead he saw the type of person that would snap at Mum for burning dinner, or for telling her ‘no.’ He saw the girl that laughed cruelly and mirthlessly in his face when he attempted to cheer her up with tea and a soft smile. He saw the type of person that stirred the pot, and yelled in Martin’s face when he tried to cool the temperature._

_Where she was cold and cruel and aggressive, Martin was soft spoken and meek and constantly mediating. Like a turtle in his shell, merely seeking peace and refuge and most importantly, quiet. Nobody wants to listen to Martin, but when they need a mediator, he’s always there. When the rest of his senses fade to the problem in front of him, he steps in. Because otherwise, the fighting would tear him apart, slowly, like a decay that takes hold of his heart. If he didn’t step in, the powder keg that was his mother and his sister would clash in the form of an explosion that would leave Martin as collateral._

_“Angie, it’s not that big of a deal, please calm down,” those words felt worn on his tongue, in those days._

_She would always spit back something along the lines of, “Why are you always saying that? It’s not okay. Nothing is okay.”_

_Even still, after all the times that Angie yelled at Mum needlessly, she somehow still favored Angie. Maybe it was because he was _‘an abomination to God.’_ Yeah, that was probably it. Hell-- even before he came out, even before she got sick, his mother always seemed to favor Angie before him._

_When Angie had fully grown into her hardened and crass shell, she resorted to calling him offensive names just to get him to stop intervening. Eventually, it worked. And Martin, with a hopeless sort of dejection, let the mold and decay of stress and grief fill the crevices of his heart. He was tired of leaving his shell to keep the peace for his own sake. Instead, he tried his best to ignore their confrontations, and kept his head down._

_It never worked, of course. Whatever the aftermath of Angie and Mum’s fights were, he was almost always caught in the crossfire. He learned how to talk them both down, but not without great cost to his own emotional health. The way that he soothed and talked down had become a survival tactic that he’d only used to prevent cracking under pressure._

_When his mother went immobile from sickness during their early teens, Angie refused to do any of the usual house work. So while Angie snapped and bitched, she still left the house to be without responsibility for many nights at a time, and Martin would be left to take care of his mother, when it wasn’t summertime with his memée._

_Even after he quit secondary school to care for his mother, she still was never pleased with him. She constantly wanted more, more, **more**. Nothing he did, even beyond the difficulty of basic care, was ever enough, for both his mother and sister. He just wanted them to be happy, he just wanted them to be somewhat content again. But still, Angela kept fighting, kept dodging responsibility. Meanwhile, his mother avoided his eyes with every attempt to cheer her up. The decay that lodged itself into the creases of his heart had made the pieces crumble away like ancient cobblestone, and his mother and sister both carried sharp, glinting pickaxes, chipping off pieces as they pleased. _

_He couldn’t understand why Angela was so argumentative. Why she never sought peace, why she couldn’t ever seem to keep to herself. Why she refused to process the life changing event of their mother’s diagnosis and consequent immobility in deference--as he did. So Martin grew to despise her. Because where he tried to secure a knot, she cut the rope. Where he tried to build connections, she destroyed them._

_He’ll never forget the moment when he asked her _’why?’_ _

_She had looked him in the eyes, “You always wanted things to be okay, even though they weren’t. I got tired of it,” she shrugged, “I wanted you to feel everything I felt.”_

_Martin felt like someone rammed a mallet into his solar plexus, the air stolen from his lungs in a way that made them burn. Martin had seen red, the fog having disappeared from his mind in his shock._

_“So you intentionally made my life hell? You caused those problems because I wanted to grieve in peace? Because I didn’t want to live my entire teen years in a shitty home, while taking care of my sick goddamn mother?”_

_“I was hurting, and you were always pretending it was alright,”_

_She’d said it so simply, as if it all made sense._

_Martin’s head spun, “Didn’t you consider that **I** was hurting? I haven’t felt like myself for so long, Angela. I haven’t been able to think about who **I** want to be, because I’ve been too busy picking up after **your** slack, and **your** messes, and taking care of **our** mother. Hell, I fucking quit secondary school for her, and she can’t even look me in the bloody eye!” _

_Angela sneered, her eyes turning into cruel, sharpened hazel points--like the tip of a rusty, moss covered axe._

_“That’s because you look like--”_

“--tin? Martin!”

The fog slowly lifted, his surroundings shifting back into focus. Notably, Jon’s face at the center of his vision, a concerned visage painted on the smaller man’s face.

“You stopped responding for a moment,” his voice was quietly urgent, his eyes glassy with concern. 

Martin understood his implicit worry, which was mostly pertaining to the same reason why he has gray in his eyes and streaks of white in his hair. He relaxes his shoulders, not having realized that they were tensed up to his ears, and smiles reassuringly at Jon. 

“I-- I’m okay, Jon. It’s okay.” he places a calming hand to his shoulder, the encompassing pressure causes Jon to visibly relax. 

From across the room, Arthur struggles with a box. Glancing over, he gestures at the two men, “He’s okay? Excellent. Can he _please_ come over here and help us with these decorations?” 

Martin slides his hand from Jon’s shoulder, and gets up off the couch. Jon moves to follow him, when Martin turns around to stop him with a look. He meets Jon’s eyes meaningfully, then glances at the bored and antsy little boy sitting next to him on the sofa. 

“You look good in braids, Jon. Why don’t you let Gabe finish them for you.” Martin smiled sweetly. Defeated, Jon huffed, and retreated to his spot on the floor. Gabriel squealed in delight.

As Martin approached the group of bustling family members, he noticed a pair of sharp eyes cutting their way through the crowd. They belonged to none other than his sister. They felt as cold as ever, upending his stomach in the worst way possible. She had something to say, and he could _feel_ it in the way her gaze sliced through him, like a gust of wind bites through thin cotton. He deliberately faces away from her, meeting Arthur’s gaze. 

“Would you be able to find some of memée’s rainbow Christmas lights? I think they might be in the attic, but Angela would know better than me, she could probably help you find em’.” 

Right. Martin took a deep breath. _So much for avoiding her._

He immediately felt a swooping sensation in his stomach, one that made his throat burn and his heart race. He hadn’t talked with his sister alone in their entire time here. He had always been with Jon or Vivi or memée, to name a few. Never once, had he faced her in the silence with nobody else around, not for at least 6 years. His stomach felt like it was filled with inconceivable heaviness and impossible, dizzying weightlessness at the same time. 

As he approached, he felt his feet struggling against the weight of all that had happened between them. All that weight had been resting on his shoulders for so long. He never thought he deserved to shrug it. Even as he faltered in his approach, he never once considered unburdening himself by just telling her off. Telling her she didn’t have power over him anymore. Because he knew that wasn’t true. He kept walking. 

When he’d finally made his way through the crowd, they met eyes. He didn’t falter. He took a deep breath, and kept walking. He brushed past her, into the dark hallway beyond, determined to find these damn lights on his own. A small voice in his head-- which sounded a lot like that lonely sailor--called him a coward, but he ignored it. His heart began to slow its drumbeat pace. He didn’t have to talk to her, and he certainly didn’t have to cooperate with her for anything--

“M*****.” 

Martin froze. He felt as though a bucket of ice water had been poured down his back. He’d heard that name more times in the past 6 days than in the past 6 years, and yet still, each time he heard it had felt like a gut-punch. 

“I don’t go by that name--” 

“Jesus Christ, do you ever shut up? Cut the bullshit.” Angela’s voice, crude and cruel as a jagged blade, permeated the dark long hallway. Martin paused, and turned toward her. 

“ _Excuse me?_ ”

“I knew you were going through shit when Mum was on her way out, but I never knew you’d--,” she laughs hollowly, an echoing, shuttering thing that rattles Martin to his core, “--I never knew you were _serious_ about wanting to be a man.” She smirks, an evil, wicked thing, and her eyes beg Martin for a fight as she walks closer to him. 

“I’m not doing this, Angela.” He stands firmly in place, his voice feigning strength. 

“Yes you fucking are, _Martin_ ,” the way she spat his name into his face, the one he’d chosen so carefully for himself, the one that made him happiest, the one that Jon pronounced in such a loving, unique way that it made his heart warm--it was a bastardization of all those feelings, of all those things it was supposed to represent. Martin was livid. His fingers drew together into fists, and they shook from the tension that wrought his muscles.

Angela steps forward, and he instinctively steps back, backing himself into the wall. She pokes him directly in the chest, “I want to know why you thought it was okay to fuck everything up. Why couldn’t you just leave things alone.” 

“Leave _what_ alone--? Angela, what--” 

“Mum only had a few years left, and you knew that. We _told_ you not to tell the rest of the family about your-- your--” 

“My ‘ _what_ ,’ Angela. Say it.” Martin jutted his chin up defiantly, in an act of strength that showed more power than he felt. He could feel water in his eyes, threatening to spill. 

“Your goddamn _condition_ , is what it is. We told you not to tell them, because it would fuck everything up-- moreso than things already were, and what did you do?” She throws her hands up aggressively, her voice raising in volume. Martin flinched. 

Despite his pounding heart, he still met her eyes bravely, which is something that Martin from six years ago never would’ve done. 

“I don't owe you _anything_. I never owed you anything. I gave up my teenage years to take care of _our_ mother, and you never gave anything back. I didn’t have anything left to _give_ , Angela. I wasn’t about to let you take my identity hostage, too.” 

He didn’t want to plead with her, not again. But it was quickly becoming apparent that he was falling back into old patterns, and he realized he couldn’t do it again. He couldn’t--no, _wouldn’t_ \--hide away his feelings for her sake, not anymore. Not with all the things he’s seen, or the people he’s met, or the love he’s found. He couldn’t retreat again, not after everything he’s gone through just to stand here--just to live. 

“I gave you and mum _everything_ I had. I’m not making that mistake again. I refused then, and I refuse to play your game now--”

“ _\--Gave us everything?_ Really, M*****? You were always pretending that you were making big sacrifices, even when we were all making sacrifices, M*****! Hell, you even left our poor goddamn grandmother behind to _rot_ because your--” she poked his chest again for emphasis, harder this time, and he flinched away out of habit, nowhere left to go but further into drywall, “--fragile feelings got hurt,” she met his eyes fiercely, “Hell, you’re no better than our father, who left mum just because he couldn’t take the heat--sound familiar?” 

Martin’s throat went dry, and his cheeks were wet before he even realized it. Despite his best efforts to put on a brave face, he couldn’t take it anymore.

“Stop it,” His voice broke. 

Angela didn’t stop, in fact, she kept going, the volume of her voice rising, “Hell, you even _look_ like him. You always have. But those grey eyes--God, it's uncanny how similar you are now--” 

Something inside him snapped. Martin hadn’t the slightest clue how he’d endured this abuse as a teenager, but he had a feeling it had something to do with the ice that instinctively crawled through his veins now, gluing him to the spot. Everything seemed to slow down once more. 

In the span of a moment, a realization slammed him firmly in the chest, and suddenly, he felt like he could breathe. He began taking large gulps of oxygen like a drowning man breaching the surface for air. Of all the abuse that he’d endured, he realized why this time was different. The cage of his teenagehood, the expectations and personal responsibility that entangled him in his mother’s web--they had been cut. They’d been severed the moment that she had died.  
Standing tall before his sister, Martin Blackwood finally realized that he didn’t owe her anything. 

“I said I’m not doing this, Angela.” He wiped his eyes, and cleared his throat. He’d heard all of this before, from someone who was _much_ better at getting under his skin. 

He knew now, that he didn’t have to explain to her why he loved Jon, or why he loved being Martin, because he knew she wouldn’t listen, and he had no obligation to try. Martin no longer felt trapped by the bonds of abuse that alienated him into his tight, lonely shell during childhood. 

The warmth that freed his limbs took the form of a small man, with eyes like rust and lightning in equal measure, hair peppered with premature age, and skin breached by scars. It took the form of a flirt who used to wear hawaiian shirts to an academia job, and who had been reckless and impulsive down to the bone. It took the form of everyone who respected him, who called him by his real name, who looked him in the eyes and saw him for the person he was, not the person he used to be. He felt like he could breathe again, because he knew that he didn’t owe anyone in this house anything. He had enough love in his life to prove he didn’t need their approval. 

“If you don’t want to understand me, then fine. But you will respect me.” He met her eyes once again, looking into them with great strength. To someone looking from afar, they were as bright and wild as a storm, and as cold as a winter blizzard. His heart felt fortified. 

She snorts, “whatever you say, M**--”

“Do not ever say that name again. And do not ever compare our father’s cowardice to mine. I’m here now, I showed up--and that’s more than he’s ever bothered to do.” 

“You can change your name, your appearance, your demeanor--whatever. But you’ll always be M*****.” 

Martin grins, it's a sarcastic and caustic thing, “You’re wrong. Because isn’t that the point of growing, Angela? You don’t stay the same, and you’re never the person you once were,” Martin huffs out a sardonic laugh, “Maybe you should give it a try sometime.” 

“I don’t need to take orders from someone that looks so much like _him_ ,” 

Martin smiled, a sharp and dangerous thing that slid onto his visage like a knife sliding from its sheath, glinting and fatal, “it was foolish of me to think that time would give you maturity, Angela.” 

He pushed past her. Moving towards his and Jon’s room, towards safety, and love, and peace. His heart clamored in his chest, beating against his ribcage as if rallying for escape. But he took a steadying breath, and the air that filled his chest felt something like freedom. 

As he climbed the stairs to the second floor, a picture caught his eye. It was the very same that Jon had seen on their first day here. It was one of many where he appeared as a person that he no longer recognized. A person that he deeply wished he could cut out of his heart. The person in this picture spent all of his time giving away his heart to those who didn’t deserve it, and he despised that person for it. 

To him, it was someone who had left his grandmother behind, who never spoke up for himself and toed the line. It was someone he was deeply frustrated and ashamed of, because if he’d just spoken loud enough, been strong enough, been _enough_ \--then maybe he wouldn’t flinch when someone yells. Maybe the courage to stand up for himself would come without such protest. Maybe he wouldn’t carry these scars. 

He looked that person in their hazel eyes, glossed upon the film, and for a moment, the light refracted against the glass covering the photo. In the frame of the picture, he saw himself reflected over the person he once was. He saw his gray eyes--they looked sad and tired in equal measure. He saw the streaks of white in his hair that refused to go away, even if he dyed them. He saw his brown skin that nearly matched Jon’s. He saw his scars, both inside and out. 

However, there was one key difference between him and the person he used to be. In that moment when he caught his reflection in the glass of the photo, he realized the difference was in the way his reflection stared back. When he looked in his reflection, he saw someone that was loved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uhhhh so :) I hope this was as fun and cathartic to read as it was for me to write! I really enjoyed exploring Angela and Martin's clashing ways of dealing with grief, and how that can tear a relationship apart...
> 
> In the next update: it's officially Christmas Eve, and the whole family is going through their usual traditions, which include church, and a big family dinner. Nothing could possibly go wrong :))) Nothing damaging will come up at all, and everyone will be happy :)
> 
> Now the hard part for me is actually writing chapter 9. Because it took me so long to write 8, and because it's been really hard to create content lately, I'll once again be making you fellas wait another 2 weeks before the next update. 
> 
> Which means **the next update of SYWbL will be on February 27th**. 
> 
> I feel bad making y'all wait, but some of the themes that next chapter covers, and the scale and breadth at which it covers them, is going to be difficult to complete between now and next week, so thank you for the support and patience! 
> 
> Once again, comments and kudos are appreciated! See you in 2 weeks!


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